In Essence Divided
by Taure
Summary: Post-CoS divergence. Something goes wrong in the Chamber of Secrets, fundamentally altering Harry. Can he keep the changes a secret? What do they mean for his future? DLP February 2012 Contest runner-up. Not a soul bond story.
1. Chapter 1

A.N. This was my entry into the DLP Febrary 2012 contest. It placed second after Silens Cursor's "Eternal Twilight of a Wicked Mind". The contest brief was to write the first chapter for a story that the community could continue, one chapter per month. Each month members will submit chapters intended to follow on from the winner of the previous month. I do intend to continue this story on my own. Lords of Magic is not abandoned. A Harry Potter/Dresden Files crossover is also in the works.

* * *

><p><strong>In Essence Divided<strong>  
><strong>Chapter One<strong>  
><strong>By Taure<strong>

_"Phoenix tears..." said Riddle quietly, staring at Harry's arm. "Of course... healing powers... I forgot..."_

_He looked into Harry's face. "But it makes no difference. In fact, I prefer it this way. Just you and me, Harry Potter... you and me..."_

_He raised the wand..._

_Then, in a rush of wings, Fawkes had soared back overhead and something fell into Harry's lap - the diary._

_For a split second, both Harry and Riddle, wand still raised, stared at it. Then, without thinking, without considering, as though he had meant to do it all along, Harry seized the basilisk fang on the floor next to him and plunged it straight into the heart of the book_.

At first, nothing happened. Riddle laughed.

"Fool!" he said, "it will take more than bone-"

He stopped, and looked down at himself. He was blurring at the edges, his essence drifting away like smoke. Harry's eyes followed it. It was floating across the chamber over to Ginny's body, where she was breathing it in.

"No!" cried Riddle, and he lunged for the diary. Harry rolled over, strong again from Fawkes' tears. He clutched the diary to his chest and scrambled to get up.

"_Avada Kedavra!_" Riddle cried. There was a flash of green light; Harry dived back to the floor.

But Harry had not been Riddle's target. The spell crossed the chamber in less than a second, moving too fast for the eye to follow, a blur of green light. It struck Ginny. Immediately, Riddle's ghostly being lost its shape, dissolving into a cloud of roiling colour. The cloud turned one way and then another, like a dog sniffing the air. It pointed itself towards Ginny, then shot into her, entering through her mouth.

Ginny stirred, then clumsily got to her feet.

"Ginny!" Harry cried, and he rose to meet her, relief rushing through him. But he stopped cold when he saw her eyes.

Her eyes were red.

They stood there for a moment, Harry and Ginny, eyes locked. There was nothing of Ginny left in those eyes. Hate and anger coursed through Harry, so strong he was almost trembling. Tom Riddle needed to die. Harry's wand was lying abandoned on the floor, dropped by Riddle when he moved to possess Ginny. Riddle seemed to realise it at the same time; they both began running at the same moment.

Harry was faster. He reached the wand and dived for it. Still holding the diary with one hand, he grabbed his wand with the other.

"_Expelliarmus_!" he cried as he rolled onto his back. Riddle had been right on Harry's heels. He had no time to avoid it: the spell caught him in the face and knocked him off his feet. Harry rose.

Their situation was now the mirror image of five minutes previous. Harry stood over the possessed Ginny, wand in hand, positioned to strike him down. But Harry was not Tom Riddle.

"What're you going to do, Harry?" Tom said. His voice was a strange combination of Ginny and Tom Riddle. It was Ginny's voice, but it held all the cruelty and malice of Lord Voldemort. "Are you going to kill poor, defenceless Ginny? Do you even know how?"

Harry didn't. He hesitated. Tom stood up and looked into Harry's eyes. Harry looked right back.

"Give me the wand, Harry." His voice was soft, but it carried such authority, lulling Harry into some sort of trance. His scar was itching, and his arm began to move."You cannot win. I shall make it quick. Just give me the wand."

Harry's scar was burning now, burning white hot. Somewhere, someone was screaming, and he had fallen to his knees without realising it. He held his wand out.

Fawkes saved Harry one last time. He descended from nowhere and snatched the wand from Harry's hand, right before he could pass it to Riddle. The bird trilled as it carried the wand away from Riddle, and the spell was broken. Harry came out of his trance and realised where he was. There was a strange feeling in his head, behind his still-burning scar. It felt like a needle spearing through his thoughts, trying to push them in unnatural directions.

_I should give him the diary_, Harry thought. But now he was aware of it, he knew this thought wasn't his own. Harry focused on it, grasped it with his full attention. He embraced the pain of the scar and _pushed _against it with his mind. And now Tom was screaming too, a high pitched scream filled with rage. Harry could feel Voldemort's thoughts, as Voldemort could feel his, the whirlwind of a mind of frightening strength. Voldemort's thoughts moved rapidly, faster than Harry could follow, racing from one line of thought to another. Still, Harry pushed. With a great struggle, Harry came to his feet, though it felt like a great weight was forcing him down. He started to walk towards the fallen Basilisk, each step a battle against Riddle for control of his body.

"What. Are. You. Doing?" Riddle said, each word filled with effort and pain. And underneath the anger, Harry thought he heard fear, as well. The thought emboldened him. He walked quicker now, and easier, and Riddle began shouting incoherently, raging not just at Harry but at the universe. Harry reached the basilisk, and pulled free a fang. Unlike the fang that Harry had plunged into the diary, this one was still dripping with a lurid green venom.

"I AM LORD VOLDEMORT!" Riddle cried as Harry skewered the diary a second time.

Tom fell silent. Minds connected as they were, Harry felt Riddle's death intimately, almost as if it were his own. The racing maelstrom of Voldemort's thought stuttered and slowed, and then resolved onto one thought only, terrifying in its intensity.

_I am dying._

And then he did.

But it wasn't over. The mental connection Harry had created remained open; he didn't know how to close it or control it. Ginny's body slumped to the floor at the same time as Harry. His mind stretched and twisted; it felt like he was falling, being sucked into the vacuum left by Voldemort's death like water down a sink. There was nothing he could do to stop it. The world was spinning now, swirling in a kaleidoscope of confusing sensations.

Harry vomited, and then passed out.

* * *

><p>Harry woke in the hospital wing. He knew it without having to open his eyes – he would recognise that forcefully floral scent for the rest of his life. He was quite comfortably tucked into bed, two of his legs pulled up in a foetal position, the other two crossed at the ankles.<p>

_Wait, what?_

Harry sat upright and opened his eyes in confusion. Dizziness overtook him as he tried to process what he was seeing. For a moment, his mind rebelled, but then the hospital wing came into focus. It was night time and no one as around. Though dark, a few candles were lit – enough for Harry to see shapes in various shades of grey. He was in a bed, staring at Ginny, who was sitting upright in a bed opposite him. But he was also in the bed opposite, staring at himself. His field of vision included both. It wasn't that they were next to each other with black space in between, or anything like that. He simply had two different fields of vision, which he was aware of separately.

For some reason he was seeing out of Ginny's eyes.

"Ginny?" he whispered. But when he spoke, he spoke with two voices and two mouths, perfectly in time with each other. He wasn't seeing out of Ginny's eyes. He _was_ Ginny. _And _he was Harry Potter.

Another wave of dizziness overtook him; his vision blurred and then refocused, but now it was different. Rather than being two separate fields of vision, he was seeing one panorama, an almost complete view of the hospital wing. He could see out of the window behind his head, as if with his own eyes. Experimentally, Harry tried to replicate the feeling from before, stretching metaphysical muscles that he was only just becoming aware of. His vision blurred briefly – and somewhat painfully – and he returned to seeing things separately. It was really just like deliberately blurring your eyes, Harry thought, or how it feels when your eyes first adjust to new glasses.

"Weird," he said, and he said it with two voices again. Harry frowned. That could get annoying. He raised his right arm: Ginny's arm moved too.

Only that's not what it felt like, not really. He didn't feel at all like he – Harry – was the dominant side. It wasn't really that he moved his arm and Ginny's arm copied. It was that Ginny's arm and his arm were both his right arm. He had two right arms, and they were equally his. The body of Harry Potter felt no more his than Ginny's did.

Well, that wasn't quite true. He still thought of himself as Harry, and if he were to imagine himself, it was Harry Potter's body he would picture. But as far as his senses and muscles were concerned, there was no real hierarchy between the two bodies. In fact, Ginny's right hand felt more dominant than Harry's left. It felt odd to think of himself in that way, as divided into two: Harry and Ginny, and his true self as some kind of thing that bridged the two. But it was the easiest way to think of things, Harry quickly found. English didn't have words for third and fourth arms, only left and right. So as Harry experimented with various movements and got used to having two sets of each sense, he soon found himself thinking in those terms: thinking of one of his bodies as Harry, the other as Ginny, and himself as some kind of super-Harry.

It took around an hour for Harry to become sufficiently accustomed to his new situation that he could think past the sheer amazement and novelty of having a distributed consciousness. It was then that the events of the previous day caught up with him. It was then that he realised that Ginny was dead.

He couldn't know for sure, of course. He had never possessed another person before. He didn't know what it felt like to do so, or how much you should be able to feel the other person. But what Harry knew was that he could feel no trace of Ginny's mind. He tried to clumsily search for it, using primitive instincts uncovered to him by his mental battle with Riddle. He had no real understanding of what he was doing, but he focused as he had the night before, picking apart his own thoughts, taking each one in turn and searching them for any trace of alien presence. He found none. But as he was doing so, he did remember something Riddle had said.

_She struggled and cried_- that's what he'd said. If Ginny were there, wouldn't she be struggling now? And even if she wasn't fighting him, wouldn't Harry be able to feel her? It sounded like Riddle could.

No, Harry was fairly sure that Ginny was gone.

_Oh god, Ron, _Harry thought. He would have to tell Ron that his sister was dead. For surely they all believed her to be alive – her healthy body was right there, lying in the hospital wing. And Mr. and Mrs. Weasley too, he'd have to tell them. And he'd have to tell them that he now had control over her body, a living reminder of all they lost. And what would they do when they found out? Would they attempt to sever the connection? Would they destroy Ginny's body if they couldn't?

Harry rebelled at the thought, as he would if someone suggested cutting off a limb. For that's exactly what it would be.

But he had to tell them. He _had _to.

* * *

><p>Harry didn't sleep that night. Neither of his bodies did. Instead, he occupied himself with practising with them. Unfortunately, independent movement remained beyond him.<p>

It was like the piano, he decided. He'd taken some piano lessons at school – all the kids had. It had been a compulsory thing, otherwise he was sure the Dursleys wouldn't have allowed it. They'd only had a few lessons, and they stopped before Harry was ever able get the hang of having two hands playing separate things. Trying to move two bodies independently was exactly like that, Harry thought. It was just _tricky_. It was instinctual to raise both of his right arms together. But Harry knew that with practise, people could play the piano with left and right hands doing different things. It was that thought that kept him going. All he needed was practise.

By dawn, he could lift his right arm at the same time as raising Ginny's left. It took a lot of concentration, but he could do it.

By the time Madam Pomfrey came around, he had discovered something much more important: while it was difficult to move two bodies in different ways simultaneously, it was relatively easy to move one body while keeping the other motionless. You just had to clamp down on the urge to move it.

"Good morning, Mr. Potter," she said as she rolled a potions-laden trolley towards him, "drink these, please."

Harry knew by now that there was no use arguing. He pinched his nose as he downed three potions, each more disgusting than the last.

"What do they do?" he asked, curious. He didn't feel injured or ill. Pomfrey huffed.

"I'm glad you appear to be finally taking an interest in your health, Mr. Potter. Perhaps it will stop you, next time you decide to jump down a giant hole or fight a giant snake."

"Er..." Harry said, not sure of how to reply, but then he caught a twinkle in her eye. She smiled.

"Oh, but how can I complain, when you saved poor Miss. Weasley?" She ruffled his hair. Guilt flooded through him. "To answer your question, they're a series of potions designed to purge the body of toxins and poisons. You were bitten by a basilisk, you know."

Harry remained silent.

"I suppose you do," she continued, "which is why Professor Dumbledore wishes to speak with you. Do you feel up to it?"

Harry nodded, suddenly relieved. That was it! _Dumbledore_. He didn't have to tell Ron and the Weasleys! He could tell _Dumbledore_, and then Dumbledore could do it. And the headmaster was a great wizard. He surely wouldn't cut Harry in two. He would understand.

The old man entered the hospital wing by the main door. He was wearing unusually restrained robes of dark purple, with gold around the seams. Harry couldn't help but smile at the sight of him, given the way he had left Hogwarts. Hogwarts was where Dumbledore belonged. He took a seat next to Harry's bed in comfortable silence, waiting for Madam Pomfrey to leave. When he was sure they were alone, he spoke.

"My dear boy," he said, "once again much has been asked of you. And once again you have surpassed all expectations."

"You know what happened?" Harry asked, not really surprised.

"Some, but not all. It was I who retrieved you from the chamber, after Mr. Weasley failed to navigate the rock fall." He paused a moment, and popped a sweet into his mouth. "Ah! Poor Gilderoy! I'm sure you will be sorry to hear, Harry, that Professor Lockhart will not be returning to teach next year. Alas, his own memory charm was surprisingly powerful, and he now finds himself residing within St. Mungo's long term spell damage ward."

Harry didn't miss the twinkle in Dumbledore's eyes as he said this. Apparently, it wasn't just the students' patience that Lockhart had tested. And fraud that he was, Harry thought he deserved it. Who knew how many peoples' memories the man had taken? A thought occurred to Harry.

"What about Fawkes? Is he all right? Thank you for sending him, sir. He saved my life."

Dumbledore smiled now, a warm smile that matched his eyes.

"He is quite well, thank you, Harry. He's resting, for his burning day approaches rapidly. But he shall be reborn, and soon enough he will be full grown once more. But you should know, Harry, that it was not I who sent him. You called Fawkes yourself, by showing great loyalty to this school, and to me personally. I am quite touched."

Dumbledore had a talent for understatement; he was clearly quite moved by Harry's loyalty. He reached out and grasped Harry's hand, holding it firmly.

"I am in your debt, Harry, for all that you have done. Should you desire anything from me, you have but to ask."

Harry's mind immediately went to the Dursleys.

"The Dursleys..." he began. Dumbledore shifted in his seat.

"I am aware that your relationship with them is not what I had hoped, when I left you on their doorstep," he said. "But, as you know, there are reasons for your staying with them, important reasons regarding your safety from Lord Voldemort and his followers. I believe you are now all too aware of the very real dangers which remain."

Harry nodded. He was more aware than Dumbledore knew. An image of the kitchen at the Burrow went through Harry's mind, with the Weasleys bustling around, full of the energy of family life. That would never be the same again.

"However," Dumbledore said, and Harry's heart stopped, "forcing you to return to the Dursleys would be poor repayment for the services you have performed. There is one other option I can offer you, one which I dismissed when you were a baby. But you should be aware, Harry, that if you take up this offer then the spells on Privet Drive will break, and you can never return there."

"Whatever it is, I'll take it," Harry said, becoming restless with excitement. He sat up eagerly – only to realise that he had almost sat up with Ginny's body as well. Dumbledore's gaze shot immediately to Ginny; she (or he? - it was all very confusing to Harry) went very still. Dumbledore stood up and walked over to her. He waved his wand a few times, nodded to himself, and returned to Harry smiling.

"I do believe Miss Weasley will be making a full recovery quite soon," he said, strangely loudly. It was almost as if he wanted to be overheard... was there a spell that told you if someone was awake? There surely was, Harry thought. "Now, where were we? Oh yes. Now, Harry, as you know, you remain at Privet Drive for your safety. There is, however, one other place where I may be certain of your safety at all times. I dare say it is one of the safest places in the world."

"Where is it?" Harry asked. Dumbledore paused to take another sweet.

"Each summer, the International Confederation of Wizards convenes to discuss various issues of astounding banality. This year, the convention is to be held in Paris, and I am unfortunately its chair."

Harry frowned, wondering what that had to do with anything.

"Harry: would you like to spend the summer in Paris?"

Harry's eyes widened.

"It is of course not for the entire summer: we would retire to my summer home at the end of term, making our way to Paris a week or two after that. And there would be rules, Harry, for both your safety and education. I would expect you to-"

"Yes, yes, a thousand times yes!" Harry cried, grinning from ear to ear. Summer with Dumbledore! In Paris, no less! Harry's enthusiasm was infectious; Dumbledore smiled too, and clapped Harry on the back.

"It is settled, then. I shall pick you up from Platform Nine and Three-Quarters and we will proceed from there. I shall have to write to the Dursleys, of course, so that they know not to come."

"Why not just go from Hogwarts, sir? Why take the train?"

"I should not deprive you of that tradition, Harry. Nor would I deprive your friends of your company, especially after these dark days. But that brings us to more unpleasant business. Do you feel ready to share with me what occurred in the Chamber of Secrets?"

Harry did. He told Dumbledore everything, starting right at the beginning. He told him about the voices he had heard, about following the spiders, about Hermione's message, about going after Ginny with Ron and Lockhart. Dumbledore listened to this all attentively, without interruption, until he described his meeting with Tom Riddle.

"And you are sure, Harry, that he said that it was the _memory _of Voldemort which forced me from the castle? Just the memory?"

"I'm sure, sir."

"Very well. Please continue, Harry."

For some reason, Dumbledore looked relieved. He relaxed into his chair, and crossed his legs. But when Harry started telling him of Tom's possession of Ginny, he interrupted once more.

"Voldemort's exact words, Harry. Do you remember them? What did Ginny feed him, to make him so powerful? Just her secrets?"

Harry struggled to remember.

"I think he said... her soul. Yeah, I remember now. He said she fed him her soul, and that it was exactly what he wanted."

Dumbledore sighed, and the twinkle had left his eyes. Is that what had happened to Ginny, then? Had she lost her soul, and Harry's soul filled in the gap?

"I am sorry for interrupting, Harry. Please, go on."

They were coming up to it, now, the part Harry was dreading. Ginny's death. He was describing his fight with the basilisk when the door slammed open.

"Oh, Harry! You're awake!"

Mrs. Weasley strode into the room, a horde of noisy Weasleys in her wake. She came to Harry's bedside and enveloped him in a hug.

"You saved her! You saved my girl!"

Guilt filled Harry once more and he remained silent as Molly sobbed into his neck. He swallowed loudly.

"Modest as always," Arthur laughed, squeezing his shoulder with one hand while peeling Molly away with the other.

"As a true Gryffindor should be," said Percy, who, always formal, shook his hand.

Fred pushed him out of the way and George took Harry's hand in both of his, shaking it vigorously.

"Simply splendid job, old boy," he said; a ridiculously bad impersonation of Percy.

"Ten points to Gryffindor, what," Fred continued.

"Boys!" said Molly, and she dragged them away.

And then there was Ron. He came up to Harry and punched him in the arm.

"Not bad," he said, a study in casualness. Feelings were to be avoided.

Dumbledore stood up, smiling.

"Molly, Arthur," he said gently, "Harry was just telling me the events of two days previous."

"Oh!" said Molly, and then again, "oh! Yes, of course! Boys, back to the common room!"

"But mum!" said Ron, but Molly held firm.

"None of that! Off you run – there'll be plenty of time for talking later."

"I think," Dumbledore interjected, "that Ronald has earned the right to hear this."

Ron paused, and so did Molly. As strong willed as she was, when Dumbledore made a suggestion, you listened.

"Oh, very well. Ron, stay. Everyone else, back to the dorm!"

After a few more protests, Percy dragged Fred and George from the hospital wing, leaving Harry with Dumbledore, Ron, Molly and Arthur.

"Are you okay with us being here, Harry dear?" Molly asked. "We can wait outside, if you like."

_No, I'm not_, Harry thought, resenting the unfair question.

"You can stay," he said into his lap.

"Excellent," said Dumbledore, taking his seat once more. "Can I offer anyone a pear drop?"

No one took Dumbledore up on his offer, so Harry resumed his tale, allowing Dumbledore to summarise – with the help of Ron – those parts he had already told. And then it was his turn again. He told of how he pulled the sword of Gryffindor from the Sorting Hat and of how he stabbed the basilisk with it, impaling himself in the process.

It was at this point that Mrs. Weasley began to cry. Silently, Dumbledore conjured her a handkerchief and gestured for Harry to go on.

"The venom worked fast – I began passing out in seconds. Voldemort stood over me, gloating, still holding my wand. But Fawkes was crying on where the fang had cut me, and he just stood there, not realising what was going on!"

Dumbledore smiled.

"The short-sightedness of those who place too much value on advanced magic, Harry. It did not occur to him that something so simple could foil his plans, even though he surely knew of the power of phoenix tears. It was the same fault that led to Voldemort's fall."

"Right, exactly!" Harry agreed, "he realised it, but by that time it was too late, the wound was already healed."

"But he still had your wand," said Arthur. "How could you possibly defeat him?"

Harry swallowed. He couldn't do it. Not like this. Not with Mrs. Weasley looking at him, tears of thanks in her eyes. Not with Ron sitting next to him. He had to lie.

"Riddle scared Fawkes away with a spell, but when he flew away he flew to the diary. He dropped it in my lap, and before Riddle realised it, I stabbed it with the fang."

All true. Just not everything.

"Of course," Dumbledore muttered.

"As soon as I did that, Riddle disappeared. Just melted away like smoke."

Dumbledore was looking at Harry now, looking into his eyes.

"And that is everything, Harry? After that you just passed out?"

Harry nodded, embarrassed. It was a bad lie, but he hadn't had the time to come up with anything better.

He could feel it, like he had in the chamber. An alien feeling in his mind. It wasn't painful, like Riddle. Nor was it anywhere near as intrusive, or violent. It didn't seek to dominate. It fluttered around, brushing against this thought and that thought, like a bee hovering over flowers.

_Dumbledore_, Harry thought. He felt no real anger at the intrusion. He had just lied, and about Voldemort, no less. But he couldn't let Dumbledore know. He might tell the Weasleys, and then Harry would be exposed as a liar. To let Dumbledore tell the Weasleys before was one thing, but now Harry had committed to a lie. The Weasleys wouldn't understand.

But Harry didn't want to fight Dumbledore. His fight against Voldemort had caused pain to both - and besides, he didn't know if he could win. The shade of Tom Riddle was the memory of a 16-year-old without even the strength to take physical shape. This was _Dumbledore_. So instead of fighting, Harry tried to hide. He pulled back from Dumbledore's intrusion, marshalling his thoughts, trying to avoid thinking about Ginny or anything other than what he had told. Still Dumbledore searched. Harry panicked, and then he did something he didn't fully understand.

There is a certain feeling to thinking, to consciousness. Instinctively, people feel like they are thinking with their head. But Harry now had two heads – two brains – and he was using both. The feeling of his consciousness was inside the heads of both his bodies. It had been a bizarre feeling, to be having a conversation with all these people with one consciousness, while another lay pretending to sleep. But now he used that to his advantage. He split his thoughts in two, so that he was able to have two thoughts at the same time. It wasn't quite splitting his sense of self in two: he still had control over both. But the streams of consciousness quickly diverged, and he soon found himself following two different lines of thought. At the same time.

Harry used it to his advantage. Concentrating, he fixed one mind on the memory of stabbing the diary. He exposed that mind to Dumbledore, and whenever he was going to think of the true events in the chamber, he syphoned off those thoughts to the other mind – his hidden mind. He did all this in a matter of seconds. Dumbledore was left searching a mind which apparently lacked any memory of the true course of events.

"Very well," Dumbledore said, and he withdrew. Harry's separated thoughts crashed back together. He was exhausted; Dumbledore looked completely untroubled. "It is not unexpected that one should be drained after such an ordeal."

"Oh, Harry!" Mrs. Weasley said, and she went to hug him again. Arthur walked over to Ginny.

"When will she wake, do you think?"

Mrs. Weasley let go of Harry and joined her husband. Dumbledore got up, frowning at Ginny. Harry knew what he was thinking: he was wondering why Ginny, whom he knew to be awake, was pretending to be asleep in front of her family.

"Oh, soon, I should imagine," he said, and once again he said it in such a way that made Harry think that Ginny was meant to hear. "But she has been through much. We must give her the time and space she needs in the coming months."

"Come, Molly, Arthur. There is no use waiting here. Madam Pomfrey shall tell us when she wakes. Will you join me for breakfast, while you're here?"

They left for breakfast. Just before he closed the door, Dumbledore turned to Harry and looked at him over his spectacles.

"Remember, Harry, should you ever wish to share anything with me, I am at your disposal."

And then he was gone.

Dumbledore had said something similar, once, not too long ago.

Right after Harry had lied.

* * *

><p>A week later Harry was on the Hogwarts' Express.<p>

"Oh, I can't believe how many lessons I missed!" said Hermione, newly unpetrified. She was leafing through a series of parchments that Professor McGonagall had given her to help catch up.

Harry and Ron shared a look. Typical Hermione: has a near-death experience and her main concern is how much learning she missed.

"Well, at leas' there we' no 'xams," Ron said around a bacon roll. He'd made it at breakfast and kept it for the train. As he spoke, a small piece of bacon managed to make its way from Ron's mouth, on one side of the compartment, to Hermione's lap, on the other.

"That's... disgusting," Hermione said. She pulled out a tissue, used it to pick up the bacon, and threw it out the window.

Harry said nothing. He was concentrating. He wasn't just on the Hogwarts Express after all - he was also in the hospital wing.

"I just want to understand, Ginny," said Mrs. Weasley. Or "mum", as he called her now. She was sitting on the bed by Harry's knees. "Why don't you want to come home? Is it your brothers? They can stay with your Aunt Muriel, if you like."

Harry had "woken up" as Ginny three days after his conversation with Dumbledore. Any longer and he feared that Dumbledore would take action. Those three days had been packed with him practising independent movement at every chance he got. He had found that it was much easier if he split his consciousness like he had with Dumbledore, but he found it unsettling to do so. Though he – that is, superHarry – remained in control, it was just too weird how Harry and Ginny's thoughts diverged. It was almost like he was two separate people when that happened. That way lay madness.

_"You covered minor atmospheric Charms! Were they hard? I've never tried one before," Hermione said._

So Harry had been practising at his multitasking. Walking simultaneously was coming along, but he still had some trouble. Eating simultaneously had resulted in quite a bit of mess, but he was getting better at it. _Talking _simultaneously was still something he struggled with. As he was now, he was managing by making minimal contributions to conversations on one end while talking on the other.

He realised, of course, that he was much better at it simultaneous action than he ever would have been, before he gained a second body. Even without splitting his consciousness, he found that he could juggle thoughts in a way he never could before. He supposed it came from having two brains. More unsettlingly, he also found that his emotions were acting strangely, taking odd directions. Again, he supposed that this was the result of having Ginny's body. It was to be expected, he supposed, that there would be mental effects from having the body of a girl.

_"Hey Harry, I just realised, next year'll be Wood's last chance to win the cup. Think you'll do it?" asked Ron._

_"So long as giant snakes don't attack the pitch," Harry replied._

That was something else he was coming to terms with. While mentally he felt like he was a boy who just happened to have a body of a girl, physically he felt like he was both. Ginny's muscles moved in their own, different ways. He didn't know why they did, when there was no remnant of Ginny's mental self. But when he sat down as Ginny, he didn't sit like he did as Harry. He crossed his legs in a different way. He sat with his legs closer together. It just felt... right. Comfortable.

"Ginny?" Mrs. Weasley said, seeking an answer.

"I _do _want to go home. Of course I do," he said. Mrs. Weasley smiled. "Just... not yet."

Taking his cue from Dumbledore, Harry had been acting as if he was affected deeply by Voldemort's possession. He was using it as a shield: it gave him a reason to avoid the Weasleys, seeking solitude. He had barely known Ginny. There would be no way he could convince the Weasleys he was her under normal circumstances. So he used every excuse to avoid them, and when he couldn't avoid them he was quiet and distant.

He realised that it was causing Mr. and Mrs. Weasley pain. But it was nothing compared to how they would feel if they knew Ginny was dead.

And so it was that Ginny had asked to stay at Hogwarts over the summer. Surprisingly, Professor McGonagall had allowed it. She too had been planning to stay in the castle, as had Madam Pomfrey. But convincing Mrs. Weasley was another matter.

_"Oh, I've always loved this bridge," said Hermione._

"Oh, my baby girl," Mrs. Weasley said, and she pulled Harry in for a hug. "I've spoken with your father. He's convinced me that we should listen to what you want. You can stay at Hogwarts, for now."

Harry tried not to smile.

"But we're going to visit you every week, and Professor McGonagall's going to keep and eye on you. I still don't think it's good for you to be alone. You should be with your family! But... well."

Molly stood up and brushed herself off.

"Madam Pomfrey says you're free to return to your dorm, if you want. You shouldn't be in here all the time, it's not healthy."

_"Do you know where Professor Dumbledore lives, Harry?" asked Hermione._

_"Okay,", he said, replying to Molly, but with Harry's mouth. He kicked himself._

_"Okay? That's not an answer at all. Honestly, it's like you're not even listening!"_

_"I am listening, sorry. I'm just tired. I don't know where he lives, but we won't be there for long anyway. We're going to Paris after just a week or so."_

_"Paris! I'm going to be in France too, you know. The south, but maybe we'll cross paths at some point..."_

"Okay," Harry said again, focusing back in the hospital wing now. Luckily, the short pause hadn't been noticed. He decided not to fight Mrs. Weasley on it. She was right: he couldn't stay in the hospital wing forever. And then it occurred to Harry: he would be in the girl's dorms! This time he couldn't stop himself from smiling. What boy hadn't dreamed of it? His thoughts suddenly turned to the Gryffindor girls in the year below. He'd never really spoken to them, but he'd seen them around the common room. Ginny had always been the prettiest of them, he thought, but none of them were bad looking.

"Oh, it's so good to see you smile," Molly said, a single tear falling from her eye, before she brushed it away. "I've brought you some clothes, so you don't have to walk back to the tower in a hospital gown. I'll see you next week."

Molly kissed Harry on the cheek, and left, leaving him alone on a bed with a pile of clothes. Harry pulled out the bra, and stared at it. He pulled back the privacy curtain, and shrugged off his gown, looking down at himself. Ginny's breasts were pretty non-existent at this stage, and a light smattering of freckles extended down from her neck. He quite liked the freckles. He gave one breast an experimental squeeze and wondered how big they'd grow. After some trouble, he figured out the right way to put on the bra, and shut the clasp. Next on were panties. He'd yet to explore _down there_, leaving it for some time when he wasn't in the hospital wing. He was quite curious about it. All the boys in the dorm would be jealous if they knew – except Ron, he supposed. Harry was just relieved that he still liked girls.

He threw on the robe Molly had left for him and made his way to Gryffindor tower.

"Did you know France doesn't have a restriction on underage magic?" Hermione said.

That got Harry's attention. Now that he wasn't talking to Molly, he could focus better on Hermione and Ron.

"You think Dumbledore will let me?" he asked.

Hermione smiled.

"Harry, when Dumbledore arrived at Hogwarts he was already able to show his professors magic they'd never seen before. Somehow, I think he's okay with using magic outside of school."

Harry smiled. No Dursleys, with all of Paris and Hogwarts open to him and able to use magic: this summer was looking better and better. He bet Dumbledore could show him some pretty cool stuff, too.

The rest of the journey passed without major event. They talked, they ate, they read. They moaned about Snape, made fun of Malfoy, and speculated about their summers. Ron even predicted that his family would win Daily Prophet Grand Prize Draw. Harry could tell Hermione wanted to talk about the chamber more, though he had already told her the story he had told the others. But he was sure she had noticed the way he was acting differently as he adjusted to his bodies.

But she didn't ask. She didn't even make hints that they should talk about it. She talked about magic and Dumbledore and France and even Quidditch, and Harry loved her for it.

It was dark by the time the train reached King's Cross, but the platform was well lit. The place was crowded with families waiting for the return of their children. Younger and older siblings were there too, ready to welcome back their brothers and sisters. He found Dumbledore easily – no-one that colourfully dressed is hard to find, especially amid the blacks and greys and blues of the other witches and wizards.

He said goodbye to Ron and Hermione, and promised to write to them both.

"I'll tell you if I can get to Paris," Hermione said, before she left with Mr. and Mrs. Granger.

"Well, Harry? Are you ready?" Dumbledore asked, after Ron, Fred, George and Percy were picked up by Arthur.

"Yes, sir," Harry replied.

"Please Harry, in the summer, call me Albus."

"Yes, Professor," Harry said, giving him a cheeky smile. Dumbledore laughed.

"Well then, Harry, take my arm, and we'll be off."

Harry did so, ignoring the curious stares of the surrounding witches and wizards, and they disapparated from the platform.

_End chapter one._


	2. Chapter 2

_Massive author's notes ahead. Skip if you like._

_A note on pronouns: in the previous chapter, Harry was still working through things, so pronouns were jumbled up. The narrative occasionally referred to Harry as "she", as well as the usual "he". This was supposed to indicate the changing way he viewed himself. This was fine for the first chapter, but I think doing the whole story like that would lead to unnecessary confusion. So from now on, I will use male pronouns when talking about Harry in his Harry body, and female pronouns when in her (see what I did there?) Ginny body. This serves two purposes: firstly, it will tell you at a glance which body the narrative is focusing on; secondly, it means we can avoid weird phrases like "his skirt", which makes Harry sound like he's crossdressing, rather than wearing gender-appropriate clothing. In cases where I am referring to Harry in general, and not one of his bodies specifically, I shall default to the male pronoun, since Harry has been male for much longer than he's been female. And because I'm sexist._

_A note on narrative: writing two narratives intertwined, as I did at the end of the previous chapter, is fine here and there. However, telling an entire story in that form would be both tiresome and confusing. As such, while I shall be switching viewpoints regularly, I'm not going to attempt to display simultaneity of experience at all times. Sometimes things that occur in succession in the narrative will be occurring simultaneously chronologically. Be aware. Hopefully, it will be clear from the writing._

_A personal disclaimer: I have never worn a skirt._

_A note on pairings: there have been some complaints over this being labelled as a Harry and Ginny story. I would remind readers that the characters form is not just for romantic parings. Though Ginny is dead, she will continue to exert a major influence on Harry. That is why she is listed as the second character of the story._

**In Essence Divided**

**By Taure**

**Chapter 2**

**"**_...and here comes the first arrival: Supreme Mugwump Albus Dumbledore. The most celebrated wizard of our time, Dumbledore is expected to use the convention as a platform for his crusade against Dementors, and to settle the border dispute between Texas and California, which many think will dominate this year's convention... and what's this? Why, that's Harry Potter! Extraordinary! Dumbledore has arrived with the Boy Who Lived in tow – quite the rebuttal for those who say he's too soft on Dark wizards, if I say so myself..."_

If Harry had hoped to enter France quietly, he was to be disappointed. Radio Four and a Half was providing extensive coverage of the convention, and she was listening to her own arrival from the Gryffindor common room. He and Dumbledore apparated directly from London to the _Place de la République_** – **a large square at the heart of magical Paris, dominated by a statue of a mounted medieval wizard – and they were greeted with cheers and applause, with the flash of cameras and a mob of reporters. A large and noisy crowd had gathered to watch the arrival of the international delegations, which proceeded according to a strict timetable. As Supreme Mugwump, Dumbledore occupied the top spot on that timetable, separate from the rest of the British commission; his arrival was considered the unofficial start of proceedings. And so it was that Harry's first impression of France was a barrage of questions in at least five languages.

**"**Monsieur Dumbledore! Monsieur Dumbledore! Avez-vous des réflexions sur Lichtenstein boycotter la convention une fois de plus?"

**"**Señor Dumbledore! ¿Ha oido lo que el representante de Texas dijo la semana pasada acerca de usted?"

**"**Mr Potter! Gerald Williams, Daily Prophet. What brings you to Paris? Attending the convention?"**  
><strong>**  
><strong>Harry started at his name, expecting to be little more than a spectator at this event. He should have known better. None of the questions appeared to faze Dumbledore, who firmly guided Harry away from the apparition spot and – to Harry's dread – towards the reporters. They parted before him, their questions never stopping, cameras continuing to flash. For a moment Harry thought they were to ignore the press entirely, until:

**"**Hans Schiller, Professor Dumbledore – will you fight against his execution, as you did Grindelwald's?"

Dumbledore stopped to face the reporter. She was young, blonde, and had an American accent. He raised a hand and the other reporters fell silent.

**"**It is indeed my desire that Nurmengard should house a second prisoner before the month is through, Miss. Blair. The Dementor's Kiss is a barbaric punishment that none deserve – not even one of Gellert Grindelwald's top lieutenants."

More questions followed, but Dumbledore was done speaking for now, and they were walking once more, following a red carpet towards a group of dignitaries. The first to greet them was a small, portly man whom Harry recognised as Michel Renaud, the French Premier – Dumbledore had given him some "homework" on the French Ministry and the ICW.

**"**Ah, Monsieur Potter, I 'ad 'eard zat you were coming. I 'ope zat you enjoy your time een Paris," he said as he shook Harry's hand. "And of course, Monsieur Dumbledore, eet is good to see you again."

Other French officials followed. These Harry did not recognise, but he was able to address each by name, thanks to the commentary from the wireless. Dumbledore, who appeared to know them all, sent him an approving look, sharing a few words with each official as they worked their way down a line of handshakes. At last they reached the end of the line, where a Pegasus-drawn black carriage was waiting for them. As they clambered in, Harry could just about see the next delegation arriving – a group of wizards from New England wearing traditional Victorian dress – top hats, waistcoats, tails and drainpipe trousers.

**"**_...of course, much will depend on where New England will stand on the issue. As the most powerful nation in North America, they are best situated to resolve the dispute... rumour has it that Senators O'Higgins and Hannity met with Dumbledore last week, so I think we can expect some cooperation between the British and New Englanders on this matter – something I'm sure the Californians will be happy about. Texas has had some rocky relations with New England in the past..."_

Harry remembered the Senators' visit well. While Dumbledore had conducted all the serious discussion behind spelled doors, dinner had presented Harry with the chance to speak with the Americans about their country. The differences between Britain and New England were quite fascinating, he thought. It wasn't just the way they dressed. Wizarding Britain had many old families which carried forward traditions that were hundreds, if not thousands, of years old. Most wizarding families in New England, however, began with Muggleborns in the 18th and 19th centuries, and so their society mirrored the conservatism of that age. And while they used European wand magic, taught to them by the few wizarding migrants, New Englanders also had a love for mechanical oddities running on some kind of magical steam power.

Harry wondered if the library had any books on the subject. She tapped the wireless with her – that is, Ginny's – wand, and made her way down to breakfast, fiddling with her skirt as she went. Wearing one felt quite weird, but she was getting used to it. She had stuck to jeans at first, but Ginny only had one pair of them, and eventually she was forced to wear a skirt – which had prompted a highly embarrassing but useful chat with McGonagall about various "personal care" charms. It was lucky, Harry supposed, that Mrs. Weasley had never let Ginny buy anything too scandalous, but even the moderately conservative skirts Ginny had owned felt shockingly short. It wasn't all bad, though – the summer skirts Ginny seemed to have loved allowed a great range of movement. Jeans felt quite restrictive in comparison. And the feeling of the summer sun on bare legs was not unpleasant.

During the summer holidays, breakfast was served in the kitchens - the Great Hall was far too large for the handful of teachers who remained. As usual, McGonagall was having a mid-morning tea break when Harry arrived for her breakfast. Today, Madam Pince had joined her. _Perfect_, Harry thought.

**"**Good morning, Miss. Weasley," said McGonagall. Harry had seen a new side of her, these last two weeks. She wasn't sure if McGonagall treated girls differently, or if it was just because it was the summer, but some part of the stern teacher had become softer, almost motherly when she spoke with Harry. "I see you've put the charm I showed you to good use. Your hair looks lovely – very fine spellwork indeed."

After several days of showing up at breakfast with tangled hair, McGonagall had taken it upon herself to teach Harry a number of haircare charms. She felt a bit bad about it – McGonagall must have thought that Mrs. Weasley didn't tell her daughter anything. Harry had been stunned that there could be so many spells just for hair – though really, they weren't just for hair. The Deknotting charm, for example, could be used on shoelaces just as well. They were the most delicate things, these little charms, and Harry quickly found that they were great for practicing finer control of magic. Accidentally pulling your own hair is a strong motivator.

**"**Thank you, Professor," Harry replied, and she took a seat at the small table, realising that she was quite hungry. Hunger was tricky, these days: Harry's body, enjoying the sights of Paris through the carriage window, had already eaten breakfast. Being both hungry and full at the same time was quite disconcerting.

Elves rushed to offer her food, and she took some toast, muesli, and orange juice. "Good morning, Madam Pince," she said as she spread a liberal quantity of jam over her toast. "I was thinking of popping into the library later, if that's okay."

**"**So long as you don't make a nuisance of yourself," sniffed Pince. Here was one person who did not soften over the summer.

**"**I won't," she said, focusing for a moment on eating. Dumbledore was speaking to him in the carriage, and she had to be careful to not talk into her toast.

**"**Was there something in particular you were looking for?" asked McGonagall.

**"**Yeah, I was gonna look for a book on automata – you know, like they have in New England."

McGonagall smiled. "Well, I should imagine there are several books on the subject in the Exotic Magic section. A word of warning, however: I think you will find the material disappointing. There is nothing that automata can do that you can't do much quicker with your wand."

Harry frowned.

**"**But then why do they use them?"

McGonagall took a sip of tea. Harry recognised her going into "teaching mode".**  
><strong>**  
><strong>**"**I have seen your spellwork these last two weeks, Miss Weasley. It's very good – better even than your performance in class. You must realise, however, that this level of ability is beyond many of your fellow witches and wizards. Hogwarts is the finest school of magic in Britain, perhaps even in Europe. You should not underestimate how well we guard our knowledge. Though there are other schools of magic in the country, Hogwarts is the only _true _school – one with the ability to produce students capable of being healers, or aurors, or cursebreakers. Can you think why this is the case, Miss Weasley?"

Harry thought. She was vaguely aware that Hogwarts was not the sum of magical education in the country, but she had never really given it much thought. Something to do with knowledge...

**"**Because other schools don't teach enough for those things?"

**"**In part, yes. If you will excuse my saying so, Hogwarts is the only school with access to such great depth of expertise in its professors, and to such amazing breadth of knowledge in our library. We are the only school in Britain that has the ability to teach our students not just the _what _of magic, but the _how_and the _why_. We teach spells, certainly, but more importantly we teach theory. And as your education progresses, you will find that theory becomes increasingly important. You can levitate a feather with just some words, but if you want to transfigure animals, or animate objects, or block curses, you need to know theory."

Harry was gobsmacked. She had never realised theory was so important. To Harry, theory had always been an optional extra – something for the academically curious, like Hermione, but not very practical.

**"**Is that why Hermione is so good at magic?"

McGonagall smiled at the name of her favourite student.

**"**Precisely. The mind is so much more than what appears on the surface," - McGonagall could have no idea how much Harry already appreciated this fact - "and even when theory does not take an active part in the spell casting process, the mere fact of knowing how the spell works affects its success. At the higher levels of magic, without any understanding of how a spell works, the spell will fail completely. This is also how we can transfigure objects and animals without knowing everything about them. While we may not know the anatomy of the animal, what we do know is the theory of transfiguration, and it is this understanding which guides the spell. Without the understanding, the spell will fail."

**"**Okay... so, they use automata in New England because it means that people who are bad at magic can still do stuff?"

**"**Crudely put, yes. They call it the 'democratisation of magic' – in theory, anyone can perform any magical feat with the right automata, reducing the power of the talented elite. Of course, then a new elite rises – those who make the automata, and can afford to buy them."

They ate in silence for a time as Harry absorbed this information. She would pay much closer attention to theory, next year. And she'd be getting another chance to learn the second year material too. Learn it properly, this time, not just enough to pass. She wouldn't waste it. Perhaps it would be worth looking over her first year books again. Intending to do exactly that, Harry finished her breakfast quickly and excused herself. She had some reading to do.

* * *

><p>Meanwhile, Harry and Dumbledore were settling into the small house provided for them by the ICW. Harry's bedroom was simple enough: a bed, a desk, a wardrobe, and a Bluebell lamp. As Harry unpacked his stuff, he watched down the stairs as Dumbledore enchanted the property. He seemed to be paying particular attention to the door and windows, layering spell after spell, casting everything silently and with little fanfare. After two weeks with Dumbledore, Harry was quickly learning that often the most potent magic was that which was the hardest to see.<p>

**"**Can't people just blast through the wall, if the door is so heavily enchanted?" Harry asked, curious about the process.

Dumbledore cast one last spell, before he turned to answer Harry's question.

**"**Tell me, Harry... what is a door?"

Harry blinked at the non-sequitur. Dumbledore loved to do this: he answered questions in the most roundabout way, making Harry figure it out for himself. Not wanting to rush into a stupid answer, Harry paused to think. A door was where you entered places, obviously, but why would Dumbledore want him to think about that? He was casting protection spells, spells designed to keep people out. Harry thought he could see the answer. Sometimes magic behaved like a force, like something Muggle physics would be familiar with. But from his conversations with Dumbledore, Harry knew that more often magic was more like poetry or music. Enchanting the walls might make sense to a Muggle mind, but to a wizard, things weren't quite so simple.

**"**The door represents the very idea of entry... by enchanting the door – and the windows – you enchant against entry in all forms, even through the walls?" It was a guess, but Harry thought it was a good one.

Dumbledore _beamed_.

**"**Very good, Harry. You are quite correct. Of course, when you perform abstract casting like this – which you won't learn until your seventh year, I'm afraid – the spells do have to be altered somewhat."

**"**Altered how? Like, the incantation is different?"

**"**Meddling with incantations is the hammer of spell modification, Harry, but it can be effective. However, the more elegant – and thus, potent – method is purely mental, achieved through understanding of -"

**"**-theory," Harry completed with a smile. _It always comes back to theory_, he thought.

**"**Quite," said Dumbledore, apparently pleased with Harry's newfound appreciation for academics. "Now, I find myself quite hungry. Would you like to join me for lunch, Harry?"

They walked to a cafe near their house – which was near the Eiffel Tower – and sat at an outside table. It truly was a glorious summer's day, and Harry had to ask Dumbledore's permission to cast a cooling charm. Harry suspected that he had cast a number of other spells already, given that the Muggles were completely ignoring their (rather splendid, in Dumbledore's words) robes.

A pretty waitress came out to meet them. She was young, maybe sixteen or seventeen, and had a cheerful demeanour.

**"**Bonjour! Que désirez vous, messieurs?"

Dumbledore peered at Harry pointedly over his half-moon spectacles. Harry gulped.

**"**Er..." he began, racking his mind, looking at the menu to buy time, "pour mon ami, la salade toscane... et pour moi, la soupe de concombre glacée, s'il vous plait."

He was very aware he was speaking with a terrible accent, but thought he was doing rather well, even if a lot of what he was saying was just read off the menu. Two weeks was a very short time to learn a language, even with the assistance of magic.

**"**Et à boire?" the waitress replied, giggling at Harry's French.

Harry thought for a moment, trying to figure out what she said. She spoke so fast! _Boire... to drink! __Of course! _Harry grinned.

**"**Je voudrais le vin de la maison, et -"

Dumbledore laughed – a surprisingly deep sound, Harry always thought – and intervened in perfect French.

**"**Pardonnez mon jeune ami, il est impertinent, non? Nous aurons tous les deux un jus de fruit, s'il vous plait."

The waitress giggled again before walking away with a sway to her hips. Harry couldn't help but follow her with his eyes, blushing when he noticed the knowing – and amused – look Dumbledore was sending him.

**"**Ah, Harry, you are a fine young man, but I think in this case she may be slightly too old for you."

Harry blushed deeper still, especially as the girl in question chose that moment to return with their drinks, giving Harry a wink as she did so. Dumbledore continued on, ignoring Harry's apparent embarrassment.

**"**Besides, it was my impression that Miss. Granger and yourself were something of an item... am I incorrect?"

**"**What?" Harry blurted, shocked. What on earth did the teachers speak about in that staff room? "Hermione? And me? We're just friends!"

Dumbledore's eyes were twinkling. Harry realised he was being played with.

**"**You're teasing me," he said, somewhat accusingly.

Dumbledore adopted a somber expression – so somber that it couldn't be genuine, and said "I would never dream of such a thing. As the portrait of Phineas Nigellus reminds me regularly, it is a dangerous thing, playing with the emotions of teenagers."

Harry smiled. _Time to give him a taste of his own medicine, _he thought.

**"**And how about you, sir?" he said as the waitress brought their food, "are you and Professor McGonagall...?" He left the question hanging, its meaning clear.

If Harry hoped to fluster Dumbledore, he was quite mistaken.

**"**Oh no, Harry. No, I'm actually quite gay."**  
><strong>**  
><strong>**"**Oh!" said Harry. It was all he could do to stop himself spitting out his food in surprise. "Oh!" he said again. His attempt to unsettle Dumbledore had backfired quite significantly. The man sat there, calmly eating his salad as he watched Harry once again become flustered. "Well, sir, of course, that's, um, very, um... well, good for you!"

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow.

**"**I confess that I have never before considered it an achievement, Harry, but I thank you for your congratulations nonetheless."

It was at this point that Harry decided it would be best for all if he kept his mouth shut. He turned his attention to his refreshing soup, and ate it with gusto while flicking through her Transfiguration textbook. Reading and talking at the same time was perhaps the most taxing combination of activities. It was hard to resist the temptation to say with one body what the other was reading.

"Est-ce que tout est à votre satisfaction?" The waitress was back.

**"**Oui, merci," Harry said, not waiting for Dumbledore to prod him into speech.

**"**I must say, Harry, your French is improving rapidly," Dumbledore said once she was gone.

**"**Thank you, sir. Of course, without the language potion it would be a lot worse."

**"**Indeed... a remarkable creation. It was invented by an old friend of mine, in fact. A man called Horace Slughorn. Quite the potioneer – he taught many Hogwarts students the art, including your parents and Professor Snape."

Harry nodded, always eager to hear more about his parents. It sounded like this Slughorn fellow was a much better teacher than Snape.

**"**There was something I was wondering about that, actually."

**"**Indeed? Ask away, my boy."

**"**Well, if you can make a potion to help you learn a language, why doesn't someone make a potion to help with learning Transfiguration or Charms? It would make school so much easier..."

**"**I think you will find, Harry, that you already know the answer to your question."

_Here we go again, _Harry thought.

**"**Tell me, Harry, what is the first exception to Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration? I believe you covered Gamp this year, correct?"

Yes, Harry could remember covering Gamp's law, and he could clearly remember that there were five exceptions... one was food, he knew that. Another was gold – Ron had been very disappointed to hear that one. But the first exception...

**"**Oh, I know! Magic! You can't create magical creatures with transfiguration, or wands, or anything like that. But what's that got to do with-" Harry stopped mid-speech as his mind caught up to his mouth. "Does magical knowledge count as magic, like wands and crystal balls?"

**"**Just so, Harry. One cannot use magic to discover or create magical knowledge. It has to be earned the hard way. It is why knowledge of Mermish and Gobbledygook is so valued."

**"**Oh. That makes sense, I guess."

**"**I believe it does. Now, as I was saying, your French has improved significantly. However, in the interest of not causing a diplomatic incident, I would ask you to stick to English tomorrow at the opening gala."

Harry grinned, aware of how terrible his accent was.

**"**I suppose I can do that... are you sure I'll have to dance?"

**"**It would be quite rude not to dance at least once, I think. I'm sure you'll be able to engage a suitable partner. So long as you don't ask them in French." The last part he added with a twinkle in his eye, and Harry knew he was joking. Mostly.

**"**Harry, I wish to be serious with you now," Dumbledore said, and all trace of joking left his face. "I have said that I will keep you safe on this excursion, and I intend to, but you must assist me in this tomorrow. I won't be able to watch you every minute of the gala, nor would I want to. Keep your wand with you at all times. Do not leave the building without me. And I want you to study the dossier I gave you tonight, paying particular attention to those witches and wizards I have indicated you should avoid. If they engage you in conversation, find an excuse to leave, and stay in sight of as many people as possible. This is a diplomatic event, but not everyone comes with good intentions. And do not make the mistake, Harry, of thinking you can trust the British. If you have been keeping up with the reading I have set you, you will know by now that Narcissa Malfoy is part of the British Delegation. Don't let her beauty lull you into complacency: she is every bit as dangerous as her husband. Never be alone with her, Harry."

Harry nodded. He wouldn't let Dumbledore down.

* * *

><p>A few hours later, Harry was becoming quite bored with the first year textbooks. She was quickly realising that she had significantly overestimated her ignorance. And armed with the knowledge of a soon-to-be third year, the first year material seemed extremely simple, and was in fact quite light on magical theory. The focus of first year was more on learning how to handle a wand and use incantations, something that had always come to Harry easily.<p>

Dumbledore's dossier, on the other hand, was much more interesting. A leather-bound notebook, it was written in the headmaster's own hand over the course of many years. Each page was dedicated to a public figure, from politicians to celebrities to business people. Given some of the secrets contained within the book, Harry suspected that it was worth its weight in gold. He turned to the page on Narcissa Malfoy, glancing at the photograph – she was indeed quite beautiful - before reading. The profile contained more than a few surprises.

_Malfoy, Narcissa. British. 37 years old. Pureblood. Born Narcissa Black to Cygnus Black and Druella Rosier. Wife to Lucius Malfoy. Mother to Draco Malfoy, wizard, born 1980 and Amara Malfoy, disinherited squib, born 1981. Performed well in OWLs, receiving Os in Charms, Potions, History of Magic, and Muggle Studies. Carried on with Charms, Potions, and History of Magic to NEWT level, receiving Os in all. Narcissa is a known occlumens of moderate skill. Her personal assets are estimated to amount to around G170,000. Through her marriage to Lucius Malfoy she has access to that family's vast assets, amounting to almost ten million galleons. The Malfoy family own most of Wizard Rail, all of Smith and Smith Cursebreakers, and have a 40% stake in __The North Africa Trading company, which deals mostly in gold mining and magical creatures. The Malfoys have a residence in the French Alps, in addition to their manor in Wiltshire._

_Narcissa Malfoy is the British Ambassador to France. She also sits on St. Mungos Board of Trustees, the Board of the North Africa Trading Company, and the Committee for the Regulation of Experimental Charms. Her husband is a member of the Wizengamot, a member of the Warlock's Council, and sits on the Hogwarts' Board of Governors._

_Narcissa is suspected of many criminal activities in connection with her position as a Death Eater sympathiser. She successfully kept her husband out of Azkaban through a combination of bribery, one known use of the imperius curse, and the poisoning of Warlock Alfred Herbert. In addition to these serious crimes, Narcissa is, like most witches, guilty of repeated breaches of the Restriction on Underage Sorcery. If Sirius Black is to be believed, she also has repeatedly breached the long-defunct 1735 ban on sodomy._

_An average dueller, but a dangerous woman nonetheless, Narcissa usually avoids magical confrontation, only participating in one combat action during the war. Known to use Severus' slashing curse. Narcissa has a calm temperament, and is rarely moved to anger. She cares greatly for her son Draco._

It was well known that the Malfoys were the richest family in Britain, but Harry had never thought they were quite _that _rich. The Potters were considered well off, but the Malfoys had more than ten times as much gold as he did. No wonder Draco acted like he owned the place. The fact that Malfoy had a younger sister was also quite the surprise. The book said she was disowned, but Harry wasn't quite sure what that meant. Where was she now? In the Muggle world?

Harry continued to leaf through the book – at one point, coming across a rather short page on himself – as she left Gryffindor tower. She wasn't sure where she was heading, exactly. She just felt like stretching her legs. And one of the plus sides of having two bodies is that you could study with one while you had fun with the other. Dinner wasn't for another hour or two, so she had plenty of time to explore Hogwarts – something that she'd been doing a lot of recently. Harry had been surprised to find that Hogwarts was actually quite boring during the summer. It was still much better than the Dursleys, of course, but with so few people around there wasn't much to do other than reading, practising magic and exploring. She wanted to fly, but was scared of being seen. Harry didn't know how good Ginny had been at flying, but she didn't want to risk people thinking that Ginny flew remarkably like Harry Potter.

And so she explored. Much of it was aimless wandering, but sometimes she found something interesting: secret passages, hidden rooms, and strange events. One time when she'd been out at late, she'd seen two suits of armour begin to duel on the fifth floor landing.

Harry had developed several tactics for discovering these secrets. The moving staircases were key, she'd found. If you watched them for long enough, you could catch them breaking their patterns and going somewhere new. Normally it was a corridor that had fallen out of use, more forgotten than secret, or an empty classroom. But sometimes it was something more interesting. Her best find so far had been a dust-covered room filled with ancient canvasses, each one an intricately embroidered family tree. Many of Britain's most famous families were represented, though the trees were horribly out of date.

_Mercado Lopez, Juan. Castillian. 68 years old. Pureblood. Son to Cristian Mercado, deceased, and Isabel Lopez, deceased. No nuclear family. Educated at Beauxbatons Academy of Magic, where he received the French Baccalaureat de Magie with good scores. His wealth is estimated to be around G400,000. The ICW representative from the Kingdom of Castille, Juan is the cousin of the Duke of Castille. He is a very ambitious man, and has tried to assassinate his cousin at least twice. Though his cousin suspects him of these acts, he has held onto his __position as ICW representative through his many political allies. Juan's parents were killed by Grindelwald in person, and he is said to hate Germans._

Another trick for discovering rooms was talking to the portraits. It was a bit hit-and-miss, and Harry would often find herself stuck in the most ridiculous conversations (she'd learnt to avoid the portrait of a crazy knight called Sir Cadogan). Still, a portrait of some House elves had told her of the Old Kitchen, and she'd found it exactly as described. It was on the second floor, near what was now the dancing hall. The Old Kitchen had a rather medieval look to it, the centre of the room taken up by a series of rusted spits. The elves told her that many years ago, in the days before the Ministry, the dancing hall was where students ate their meals, and the Great Hall was used only for special occasions. But that was when the school was smaller than it was now. Two hundred years ago the school outgrew what was then called Godric's Hall, and meal times migrated to the Great Hall.

Today, Harry was investigating the seventh floor. There weren't many staircases this high up, so she figured speaking with portraits was the way to go. As usual, the portraits were eager for company: it really wasn't hard at all to get them talking.

**"**Excuse me," she said, opting for a portrait of a gnarled warlock brewing a potion. She was rather fed up of cheerful ladies having tea parties, and Barnabas was too busy training his trolls.

**"**Was willst du?" said the warlock. Harry wasn't sure if he sounded angry, or just German. "Kannst du nicht sehen, dass ich beschäftigt bin?"

**"**Er... do you speak English?" she asked.

**"**Natürlich kann ich Englisch sprechen, du dumme Schlampe! Verschwinde endlich!"

**"**Okay... I'll take that as a no, I suppose."

Disappointed, Harry left the portrait behind as it continued to shout German down the hall.

**"**Nein, warte, komm zurück!" it shouted. Then, "Fine! Ich scheiße auf deine Hurenmutter!"

Unfortunately for Harry, the crazy warlock's raving attracted attention of the worst kind.

**"**Fair maiden!" a voice cried, and Harry's eyes widened, "a foul warlock approaches! Fear not, for I shall save you!"

It was Sir Cadogan. The bumbling knight was charging towards her, jumping from portrait to portrait, brandishing his sword dramatically as he searched for the warlock. Harry turned back, hoping to avoid the enthusiastic knight, who would no doubt try to follow her all the way back to Gryffindor tower if he could. But she was too slow: Cadogan overtook her.

**"**Not this way, fire-blessed child!" he said. "The warlock lies ahead! Turn back, I beg you!"

Deciding that indulging Cadogan was the best way to get rid of him, Harry turned once more, intending to head back to her dorm. But suddenly a door appeared to her right, opposite the now-familiar portrait of Barnabas the Barmy.

Harry opened the door and gasped. The door led into an enormous cathedral-like room with a high, vaulted ceiling and giant stone pillars. It was at least twice the size of the Great Hall, and the whole thing was packed with junk. There were piles of books, hills of trunks, mountains of tables and chairs. Bookcases, desks, beds and other furniture could be found spread all over the room, and packed into every spare bit of space were the miscellaneous magical goods: potions vials and cauldrons, Gobstones sets, crystal balls, even brooms and wands.

Harry closed the door behind her. She couldn't understand how this place was a secret – though it was certainly true that she wasn't planning on telling anyone about it. Except Ron and Hermione, of course. They could lose whole days looking through this place. Who knew what it held?

It made the most sense to start with the books, Harry thought. They had titles on them, so you could tell if something was interesting with just a glance. After the tenth copy of T_he Standard Book of Spells Grade 5_, she was about ready to give up. Clearly this was some sort of repository for lost property, not a horde of forbidden knowledge. Still, there might be some more interesting books in the massive pile – she'd have to come back with Harry to have a proper look. In the meantime, she'd have a look at the other stuff.

_Mikel Edwards. German. 25 years old. Half-blood. Son of James Edwards and Nadia Kruger. Married to Felicie Fuchs. Has one child, a boy, and another on the way. Graduated from Durmstrang Institute with the Durmstrang Diploma, First Class. Wealth not greater than G50,000. Edwards is the Governor of Bavaria, and the second German representative to the ICW. He was born with dual British and German citizenship, but later renounced his British nationality. Considered by many the rising star of German politics, he has risen to the high position of Governor with suspicious ease, especially for someone so young. One to watch._

There was a pattern emerging, Harry thought as she rummaged through some trunks. Every European in the dossier had either been to Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, or Durmstrang, regardless of nationality. She supposed it was as McGonagall had told her that morning: knowledge was in short supply.

Abandoning the trunks – they were mostly full of clothes – Harry was about to leave for dinner when a shimmering caught her eye from across the room. Curious, she advanced with her wand out, before finding the source of the strange light: an invisibility cloak. It was hanging on a hat stand, and looked a bit ratty around the edges, but nevertheless it was still functional. She tried it on. It wasn't as good as the one she already had – the air seemed to blur a bit when you moved – but it would be good enough for night time explorations. Harry grinned: two invisibility cloaks!

Her interest revived by an interesting find, she was about to continue her explorations when her tummy rumbled. Dinner beckoned, but she would be back.

* * *

><p>The ICW Gala was the next evening.<p>

**"**Are you ready, Harry?" Dumbledore asked, his hand poised to open the carriage door.

**"**As I'll ever be," he replied, straightening his white dress robes – the gala had a Roman theme - and steeling himself for the flash of cameras. Once again, she was listening to himself on the wireless at Hogwarts, though this time she had taken the radio to the Room of Lost Things so that she could carry on her rummaging while she listened.

They stepped out onto the red carpet and posed for a few photographs before they started to move, heading towards the pillared entrance to the vast _Palais de Triomphe_. Luckily, the party had been in full swing for some time already, and the reporters seemed to have had their fill: they made their way up the steps to the door without too much trouble.

**"**Bonjour, Messieurs," said an official as they reached the huge wooden doors. He waved his wand and they swung outwards, revealing the glittering hall within.

The French had gone all-out when preparing the gala. The Palace's atrium, outfitted to be reminiscent of a Roman villa, was many times the size of Hogwarts' Great Hall, and was filled with almost two thousand people. An intricate mosaic covered the entire floor, depicting magical creatures and great wizards from history, and ornate pillars lined the path to the dancefloor ahead; over the dance floor the flat ceiling opened up to give a view of the starry sky above. The dance floor itself was a work of art: a large, square pool, enchanted to allow the dancers to walk on water. And dancers there were already, moving to music produced by a magically amplified string sextet.

Away from the central aisle, the pillared room extended outwards. Each set of four columns created a square; at the centre of each square a unique golden fountain sat beneath a glassless skylight. The building's stained glass windows, so striking from the outside, were invisible from the interior: the far walls were enchanted to look out on the city unimpeded by glass.

As they passed inside, their cloaks were taken by a pair of stunning toga-clad Veela, and more Veela waited within, handing out glasses of champagne.

**"**Wow," Harry said. Coming to the gala was worth it, just to be able to see this.

**"**I quite agree, Harry," Dumbledore said, passing him a flute of champagne. "And all the more beautiful for its transitory nature. Tomorrow, this room will once again be an atrium." He looked at the dance floor and raised an eyebrow. "The enchantment on the water is quite something. I wonder who performed it..."

**"**Do you even have to ask, Dumbledore?" a man's voice said, lightly accented. The speaker came into view; Harry recognised him as the stereotypically Aryan Mikel Edwards. If anything, he looked even younger in person, yet he moved around Dumbledore with a supreme confidence. Harry wondered if he had been waiting for their arrival. "We all know the real 'power behind the throne', don't we?"

Harry didn't, but he wasn't willing to ask.

**"**Herr Edwards, a pleasure to meet you at last," Dumbledore said, shaking the German wizard's hand. "And how is your wife?"

**"**Oh, she's around somewhere," said Edwards, waving an arm vaguely towards the party before turning to Harry. "And _you _must be Harry Potter. How're you enjoying the continent, Mr. Potter?"

**"**Very much," he replied. "Maybe I'll get to see Bavaria one day too."

Edwards quirked an eyebrow, looking amused.

**"**Dumbledore's had you doing your reading, has he? What delicious gossip you must be able to share! I'll tell you what, Harry: let me show you around. Maybe I could teach you something Dumbledore hasn't, eh? One young man to another?"

**"**I think not," Dumbledore intervened, his tone final. Edwards' smile froze, and in that brief moment it was clear that it had never reached his eyes. A moment later the mask was back on.

**"**Have it your way. When you tire of old men and their manipulations, Harry, come and find me." He raised his glass in a mock toast, and said "Dumbledore," then left.**  
><strong>**  
><strong>**"**That was not subtle, Harry," Dumbledore chided after he was out of earshot. "In future, I advise keeping your cards closer to your chest, as it were. Knowledge is of the greatest use when others are unaware you even possess it."

Harry nodded. Politics was more than raised eyebrows and smirks over whisky glasses, it seemed.

**"**So who's the 'power behind the throne'?" Harry asked as they progressed deeper into the hall, leaving the central aisle and heading for a fountain of a rather scantily clad Siren.

**"**Ah, yes. Herr Edwards spoke of Jean-Francois Flamel, heir to the late Nicolas and Pernelle. A rather talented wizard and, for reasons I'm sure you will appreciate, the richest man in the world."

It had never occurred to Harry that the Flamels would have descendants, but in retrospect there was no reason to think that they wouldn't. But that meant -

**"**When the stone was destroyed... it wasn't just Nicolas and Pernelle who died, was it?" he asked, his heart sinking.

**"**Ah, Harry," Dumbledore said, his tone regretful, "I wish that I could ease you of these burdens. An old man's folly. You are growing up, and I shall not hide the truth from you: five generations of Flamels relied upon the Elixir for life, and a sixth is now approaching old age."

Harry swallowed. While he was not so arrogant as to blame himself for their deaths, it could not be denied that he had some part in them. It was he who retrieved the stone from the Mirror of Erised, not Voldemort. If he had not interfered, would the stone still be locked inside that ancient artefact?

**"**I know what you're thinking," Dumbledore said quietly. "Remember what I told you two years ago, Harry. Do not dwell on dreams, for who knows what might have been? Perhaps Voldemort would have defeated my enchantments and returned, more terrible than ever. Or perhaps I might have confronted him and managed to trap and contain him. No one can know, Harry."

**"**I understand," Harry replied, and he did. Dumbledore was a realist at heart. You had to play the hand you were dealt. "But still, I wish-"

He stopped, frowning. Something had caught her attention in the Room of Lost Things. Something strange. It tugged on her very being, like a buzzing fly at the edge of her awareness. It was the kind of thing she wouldn't have noticed before, but since "the accident" her sense of the mental had increased dramatically. She looked up from the pile of dark detectors and turned the wireless off.

_Harry Potter..._

There! A sibilant voice, speaking not through the air but directly into her mind.

She was not alone.

**"**Harry, are you quite alright?" asked Dumbledore. He looked worried. "Is it your scar?"

He was about to deny it, but Dumbledore was right. Harry's scar was tingling - on both his bodies. She moved her hand to touch her forehead, tracing the outline of an invisible scar. She raised her wand, and began to search the room, seeking out the presence.

It was Voldemort. Voldemort was at Hogwarts. She was sure of it.

In that moment he almost told Dumbledore everything. There was no way she could deal with Voldemort, if Voldemort it was. The Headmaster needed to know. But once again circumstance denied him.

**"**Albus!"

A pair of wizards interrupted them. One was Senator Hannity, looking jovial as ever. He was young wizard of around forty, powerfully built with tidy brown hair. He looked quite strange in his Roman robes, so different to his Victorian suit. The other man was unfamiliar. He shook their hands distractedly, concentrating on his other body.

**"**Senator Hannity," Dumbledore greeted him, "and Monsieur Delacour. I had hoped to find you here. We have much to discuss."

**"**We do at that, Albus," said Hannity, and he leaned in closer. "Something is rotten at the heart of Europe. You must have sensed it."

**"**I have neglected Europe for too long," Dumbledore said, still keeping an eye on Harry. "You are right. Something is amiss. I fear the Dark Lord stirs himself once more."

**"**I, too, 'ave noticed zis," said Delacour. Now that Harry knew his name, he remembered who he was: he was in charge of the French Ministry of Justice. "Zis Mikel Edwards is just the start. And now 'Ans Schiller appears again, after fifty years of silence."

**"**Perhaps, gentleman, this is a conversation best had in private," Dumbledore said, and they all glanced at Harry. "How is your daughter, Albert?"

The non-sequitur confused Harry, but Delacour seemed to know where Dumbledore was going. He signaled to a group of people chatting nearby, and a girl several years Harry's senior walked towards them.

She was beautiful. Not the ordinary beauty of someone like Jemma Winters, the 7th year Harry's dorm drooled over, but not the unreal beauty of the Veela either. She occupied some perfect space in between the two, somehow combining otherworldliness with reality. Her toga was just on the right side of acceptable, revealing a healthy amount of smooth leg and shoulder. She had a lithe figure, but with enough curves to fill Harry with an odd mixture of desire and jealousy. Her hair was up in a complex arrangement that Harry would never be able to recreate, and her face had delicate, feminine features, with full lips and large blue eyes.

**"**May I present my daughter, Fleur," Albert Delacour said, placing a hand on her shoulder.

**"**Monsieur Dumbledore," she greeted, and held out her hand to be kissed. She did the same with Hannity, and then it was Harry's turn.

**"'**Arry Potter, a pleasure," she said, and Harry blushed as he kissed the back of her hand.

Dumbledore looked pointedly at Harry, and then at the dance floor, before quirking an eyebrow. Harry got the hint. There was a reason Dumbledore had spent an afternoon teaching him to dance - he just hoped he would be able to perform adequately while continuing to search the Room.

**"**Miss. Delacour," he said, blushing furiously. "Would you do me the honour of a dance?"

She looked to her father, and he gave her a nod. She smiled, and Harry thought it might have been genuine. She grabbed his hand and dragged him to towards the dance floor.

**"**I 'ave been waiting all evening for someone to ask me," she said, grinning, "but you are ze first. I 'ope you like dancing."

And then they were moving. She placed one of Harry's hands on her delightfully supple hip, took the other in her own, and Harry stepped forward, trying not to move his lips as he counted furiously in his head to keep his steps in time with the music. Fleur closed the space between them, so that they were almost touching, before moving away to twirl. He hadn't practised that with Dumbledore, but Harry thought he improvised pretty well. Really, the male part was quite easy - he didn't have to do anything fancy like spins. He just had to act as a platform for Fleur to show off from, and show off she did.

**"**_Harry Potter... the Boy Who Lived..."__the voice said again, and it was louder this time. She was getting closer._

**"**You are a good dancer, 'Arry," Fleur said as they came together again. She was almost glowing.

**"**Er, thank you," Harry said. She was very close, and her robes were quite thin. He could feel the heat of her skin underneath his hand. To his horror, he felt himself begin to harden, but if Fleur noticed she was good enough to say nothing.

_It was coming from a lone bookcase, leaning against a mountain of tables and chairs. Harry raised his wand and approached slowly. The bookcase was empty but for some kind of tiara sitting on the top._

The dance ended.

**"**Anozer?" asked Fleur, who was now looking quite flushed herself.

**"**You surely don't intend to keep him all for yourself, do you?" asked Narcissa Malfoy, appearing out of nowhere. She was like a taller, older, less pretty version of Fleur, Harry thought. Before he could object, she had taken his hand and had pulled him into a dance, waltzing away from Fleur. The French girl took the theft of her partner well: she had but to bat her eyelashes, and she had a replacement.

**"**Well, Mr. Potter," Narcissa said pleasantly while guiding Harry somewhat forcefully through the steps. Apparently Mrs. Malfoy liked to play the part of the man. "It looks like I have you alone at last."

**"**Hardly alone," Harry said, remembering Dumbledore's words. _Stay in sight of as many people as possible_.

Narcissa's lip curled in disdain.

**"**These people? Look around you, Harry. This is _my _world. These are _my _people, not yours." She lifted Harry's arm and spun him around.

_Harry used her wand to knock the tiara off the bookcase, not wanting to touch it. You couldn't be too careful with this sort of thing. It fell to the ground with a clang, appearing to be nothing more than a tiara._

**"**Hogwarts is a long way away, boy, and honour is even further. I could curse you right now and they'd do nothing, if they saw the gold in it."

Harry believed her. He remembered well how she had bribed, coerced and murdered her husband's way out of jail.

**"**What do you want?" he said. There had to be a reason why she wanted to dance with him.

She laughed.

**"**Want, Harry? There is nothing you have that I desire. No. I merely wanted to see you now, at the height of innocence. I wanted to see you happy. This way, I can know how low I have brought you, when all you love is lost."

Harry stopped dancing.

**"**Is that a threat?" he said. It might have had more effect were he taller and his voice deeper. "Your husband thought he could threaten me once. It didn't end too well for him."

Narcissa grabbed him by his robe and pulled him close.

**"**Do you seriously think that a boy of twelve can stand against the Dark Lord?" Narcissa whispered.

**"**_You will be mine, Harry Potter," __said Voldemort, and the tiara erupted with a black smoke, surrounding Harry in darkness. A presence was in her mind, violent and familiar, more potent than Tom Riddle; it clawed through her thoughts, seeking to bend them and turn them to its will. Her scar was burning, and she screamed._

_Harry tried to rally against it, using all the tricks she could think of. She tried splitting her thoughts in two, she tried hiding them, she tried fighting against the presence, but it was too late. Voldemort was already in her mind, pervading her every thought. _

_Images flashed in front of her eyes: Hogwarts in flames, Ron and Hermione dead, and above it all a resurrected Voldemort, victorious and mighty._

**"**_You will lose everything you love... only then will you die."_

A cold fury filled Harry, and he could feel his magic bubbling to the surface.

**"**I WILL _DESTROY _YOU!**" **Harry shouted as he went to his knees. His magic _thrummed _with power and a wave of pressure erupted from around him, smashing every glass within five metres. Narcissa was pushed back, and the fragment of Voldemort screeched in pain, pulling back from Harry's mind.

The palace went silent. The dancing stopped. All turned to stare at Harry, kneeling on the floor before Narcissa. And then Dumbledore was there, the crowd parting before him. His face was terrible to behold; his eyes burning with fury. His wand was in his hand, and the air stirred around him with an unnatural breeze.

This was the man Voldemort feared.

**"**Dumbledore-" Narcissa began, but she got no further: without warning Dumbledore flicked his wand, launching her through the air as if pulled by an invisible bungee cord. She went right through one of the hidden windows, filling the hall with the almighty racket of glass smashing. The onlookers gasped.

Dumbledore ignored them all. He walked up to Harry, grasped his arm, and they disapparated with a resounding _crack_, smashing through every enchantment designed to prevent it.

A moment later they were in their house. Harry gaped at Dumbledore, and passed out.

* * *

><p>Harry woke with a start, sitting up with both bodies at once. Dumbledore had put him to bed, but at Hogwarts she had fallen unconscious in the Room of Hidden Things. The tiara was still lying innocently on the floor next to her, giving no sign of the malice which lay within. Tentatively, Harry wrapped it in the invisibility cloak - not wanting to touch it with her skin - and began the long walk back to Gryffindor tower.<p>

Meanwhile, he got out of bed and used the bathroom before putting on a casual robe for breakfast. He paused on the landing when he heard the sound of talking, but it was too quiet to make out. Clearly Dumbledore had company - no doubt concerning the events of the previous night.

He readied himself for an awkward conversation and stepped downstairs.

He found them sitting at the kitchen table, drinking tea. There were five of them, as well as Dumbledore, all of them men. Of them, Harry only recognised one: Mikel Edwards. Harry frowned, wondering why he was there. It was clear from the night before that he and Dumbledore did not see eye to eye. The others were unknown to him, but Edwards was by far the youngest. The next youngest, a man of around forty, was a handsome aristocratic looking man with black hair. The other three were all grey haired, and the oldest could surely rival Dumbledore in years.

They stopped talking when Harry entered.

**"**This is the boy then?" asked the old man. He seemed to be examining Harry, his eyes piercing and intelligent. "Will he be trouble?"

Dumbledore turned to look at Harry, and that was when Harry realised that something was wrong. He had never seen Dumbledore look so anguished. He was angry - furiously so - but when he met Harry's eyes the anger gave way to great sorrow. He had never looked so _old_.

**"**Good morning, Harry," he said. Whatever he was feeling, he covered it well - ever the master of his own mind. "I hope you are well rested. I wonder if you could do me a favour?"

Harry looked around, bewildered.

**"**Okay," he said, slowly. "What?"

**"**We have run out of milk," Dumbledore said casually. Whatever Harry had been expecting, it wasn't that. He looked at the table. A large jug of milk was sitting next to Dumbledore's hand. "I wonder if you could pop to the shop around the corner for me. Don't worry - I have some Muggle money. Come here, my boy."

Dumbledore reached into his robe pocket and the men stiffened in their seats. But he withdrew only a handful of coins and they relaxed. When Harry moved to take the money Dumbledore grasped his hand tightly. There were more than coins in his fist: though Harry could see nothing, he could feel some kind of invisible vial. Now completely confused, Harry shoved it into his pocket with the money and moved to leave, but Dumbledore kept hold of him. Harry looked into his sparkling blue eyes.

A single tear fell, and Harry felt an intrusion in his mind.

_Drink it, _a voice said, and it was Dumbledore's.

**"**Off you pop, Harry," Dumbledore said, his voice still cheerful.

**"**But-" Harry began, but Dumbledore interrupted.

**"**Remember what you promised me, Harry. And what I promised you."

Harry swallowed, and nodded. He left the house in silence.

Dumbledore asked him to get milk, so he would get milk. As he walked, he took the invisible vial out of his pocket. He still couldn't see it, but he could feel where the stopper was at the top.

Drink it, Dumbledore had said. _No time like the present_, , Harry thought. Something very strange was going on.

As soon as he drank the contents, the streets of France blurred like a smudged painting. Back at Hogwarts, Harry stopped walking in surprise, and focused on her other self. When the world refocused, he was no longer in Paris. He was at Hogwarts, standing inside the clock tower with Dumbledore and Snape, looking over at the lake. Three children were sitting by the lake's edge: himself, Hermione, and Ron.

**"**Professor, what's going on?" Harry asked, but he was ignored.

**"**You have become attached to the boy," Snape said. There was no sneer on his face, nor biting malice in his voice.

Dumbledore sighed.

**"**I have, Severus. He is a remarkable young man. So much pain lies in his future, yet he will face it, and face it by choice."

**"**You are certain that he must...?" Snape said, leaving the question hanging.

_Must what? _Harry thought.

**"**Die, Severus?"

Harry's breath caught. What was Dumbledore talking about?

**"**Yes," Snape spat, pain in his voice.**  
><strong>

Dumbledore sighed again.

**"**He _is _a horcrux. So long as Harry lives, Voldemort will endure."

Harry's legs gave out underneath him. Why was the world spinning?

**"**There must be some other-"

**"**Do you not think that I have explored every possible option?" Dumbledore said, his voice hard. "I, who have watched him since he was but a babe? Did you know that in the last ten years, there have been more than five attempts on the boy's life?"

**"**Then why, Dumbledore? Why have you protected him? Why have you let him live?"

Harry wanted to know that, too. Dumbledore fell silent. Then, at last:

**"**It is as you say, Severus. I have grown attached to the boy. Let him have a childhood first. Let him experience love. Let him know joy and magic and see the world. And then, once the pieces are in place, right at the bitter end, he will die."

Snape's mouth opened and shut several times.

**"**It is a pity," he said after some time. "The boy shows promise."

**"**That he does, Severus. That he does."

The world blurred again, and Harry found himself transported once more. This time he was in a dingy little room, a ratty bed in one corner, and a table to one side. The room was dark, lit only by candles. Dumbledore sat on one side of the table, and a woman with huge glasses sat opposite him.

**"**_The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches..." _the woman said, her voice rasping, "_born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies... and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not... and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives... the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies..."_

The room blurred, and then Harry was back in Paris. He was sitting on the ground, attracting strange looks from people across the street. He ignored them.

Why had Dumbledore shown him those memories? For memories they surely were. Dumbledore had always kept his secrets. Why give them out now? _Knowledge is of the greatest use when others are unaware you even possess it._

There could only be one reason, Harry thought, and he could feel the grip of panic begin to take hold. _No..._He got up, and ran back to the house.

**"**_There you are, Miss. Weasley!"_

_It was McGonagall, calling down the corridor to her as she ran for Gryffindor tower._

He slammed open the door to the house, and rushed inside. The kitchen was empty.

**"**_Professor!" Harry cried, "we need to get to-"_

**"**_No time for that, Miss Weasley!" McGonagall said, "The castle is being evacuated! Come, we must get you to the Burrow!"_

He rushed upstairs to Dumbledore's room.

**"**_What?" she said, surprised. "Why?"_

**"**_The castle is no longer safe, Miss. Weasley. Sirius Black has escaped from Azkaban. Now, come!"_

Dumbledore was lying on his bed. His hands were clasped across his chest, and his face was peaceful. Harry moved over to him, took hold of his hand, and began to cry.

He was dead.

_End chapter 2._


	3. Chapter 3

A.N. If you don't already do so, I recommend reading this in 3/4 or 1/2 mode. The paragraphing is so much better.

* * *

><p><strong>In Essence Divided<strong>

**Chapter 3**

**By Taure**

Albus Dumbledore was dead.

It was unthinkable. Unimaginable. World changing. For over one hundred and twenty years the world had revolved around his indomitable will. Albus Dumbledore was truly the greatest wizard who had ever walked the earth.

And now he was gone. And now Harry was alone.

Harry didn't know how long he stayed guarding Dumbledore's body. He was numb, unable to think. She Floo'd to the Burrow in a daze, taking her trunk from McGonagall in silence.

"The Burrow!" she said, her voice cracking.

The entire Weasley family was waiting for her.

"Surprise!" they shouted as she emerged. They were gathered in front of the kitchen table, underneath a colourful "Welcome Home!" banner. There was a half-eaten cake on the table, and they were all wearing party hats.

Harry felt a lump form in her throat, her vision blurring with the threat of tears.

_No._She wouldn't cry. Not here. Not with the Weasleys. She tried to smile: a fragile, watery-eyed smile, but a smile nonetheless. Mrs. Weasley came to meet her, drawing her into a warm hug. Harry allowed her, and squeezed back hard, seeking the comfort of human contact. Back in Paris, he stirred, breaking out of the shock that had gripped him. As his mind began to work properly once more, the first thing he realised was that he couldn't stay. Who knew when Edwards would return?

"Boys, why don't you take Ginny's trunk to her room?" Mr. Weasley said. Harry's trunk was taken by the two Weasleys Harry had never met - Bill and Charlie. They each gave her a hug before levitating her stuff up the stairs. As they did, Mrs. Weasley cut Harry a generous slice of cake.

Harry wasn't hungry. He was looking for Dumbledore's wand - it felt wrong to leave it there, where anyone could take it - but he couldn't find it. Gingerly, he patted Dumbledore's clothes, trying to find it. The old man, who had seemed so vital in life, now felt incredibly frail.

"We would've arranged a proper party, but we only had a few minutes warning," said Charlie as he returned downstairs. "Luckily, we had some cake already."

"I- thank you," said Harry, and she meant it. She didn't want to be alone right now. "Really - this is great."

Bill laughed.

"It's okay, Ginny, you don't have to pretend," he said, grinning, "we know the cake has 'Happy Birthday' on it."

"Oh hush," said Mrs. Weasley, "what matters is she's home."

"It's good to be back," said Harry. It was true: she had loved her time at the Burrow over the previous summer, and it was great to be back in the happy home. Only the cheerfulness of the Weasley family was managing to keep at bay the powerful melancholy which threatened to overwhelm her.

Dumbledore was dead, and his wand was missing.

Harry hated it. He hated that someone had stolen Dumbledore's wand. He hated that he had to leave the man he had come to see as a grandfather. He hated that he had to run. But run he must. He gave Dumbledore's cold hand a final squeeze.

"Goodbye, Professor," he said, and then, remembering with sadness the joke he had shared often with the Headmaster, "goodbye, Albus."

Dumbledore had tried for two weeks to get Harry to call him that. It hurt, in that moment, that Harry had never fulfilled the old man's request. He walked away before he could begin crying again. He went straight to his room and drew his wand.

"_Pack_!" he said, performing the complex charm just as Dumbledore had shown him. He could almost feel the Headmaster's firm hand guiding his own. All his worldly goods jumped and shuffled into his trunk, before he frowned. There was no way he could carry the trunk around Paris, even if he used the Featherlight charm. It was just too conspicuous.

"So who's Sirius Black, anyway?" Ron asked as he helped himself to cake. Harry perked up, curious.

Molly frowned.

"No need to worry about that now," she said quickly, trying to avoid it, but she was ignored.

"Nasty business, that," said Bill as he took a seat at the table. "I was only ten at the time, but I remember it well. Blew up half a street with a single curse."

Ron's eyes widened.

"One curse?" Harry asked, shocked. She hadn't known magic could make such powerful explosions. No wonder they evacuated Hogwarts.

"One curse," confirmed Bill, grimacing. "Killed a wizard and a load of Muggles too."

"They say he was trained by You-Who-Know himself," added Charlie. "His second in command."

"You gotta wonder how he escaped," said Fred, "no one's ever done it before."

"Could come in handy, that, don't you think, Fred?" added George with a grin.

Mrs. Weasley gasped. "Boys! Don't even joke about that!"

"Come on, mum," said Fred, "you know we'd never go that far."

"Not unless we knew we could get away with it," said George.

"Enough, boys," said Mr. Weasley, and they fell silent. "Ginny, why don't you go and unpack?"

Harry was glad she remembered where Ginny's room was. She went upstairs and sat on her trunk, staring at the wall.

He decided to travel light. He couldn't take his clothes with him, and his school books could be easily replaced if he had to. He left his broom with more regret. Hopefully, he'd get it back once everything was sorted out. In the end he took his wand, his invisibility cloak, the photo album of his parents, and Dumbledore's dossier.

He left the house under the cloak. He saw no sign of Edwards, but that didn't mean he wasn't there. He had a plan. The men who killed Dumbledore would pay for what they had done, but Harry knew he'd have to be careful. Edwards and his friends knew about Harry, and they'd be expecting him to do something. So instead of causing a fuss straight away, Harry would hide. And then tomorrow, he would find the _Palais de Triomph_e, sneak in under his invisibility cloak, and tell Michel Denaud what he had seen. The aurors would arrest Edwards before he could do anything about it, and there'd be a big trial, and all of Edwards' friends would be found out too.

And then Harry would return to Britain and stay with the Weasleys. Maybe he could even join them on their holiday to Egypt.

It was quite simple, really.

* * *

><p>Harry turned her face upwards, embracing the spray of hot water.<p>

_The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches..._

The words were imprinted on her mind. No obliviation would be able to remove them. Were they really about her? It was hard to believe... she didn't feel like the Dark Lord's equal. That was a lot to live up to. But it was quite clear what the _power he knows not_was.

She looked down at her body, her wet red hair sticking to her skin as the shower blasted her almost painfully. She'd become accustomed to her body by now, and knew it pretty well. She found that she no longer thought of it as Ginny's body. For better or for worse, it was hers.

She turned the shower off and stood there, dripping. While she was enjoying the comforts of the Weasleys' home, he was also wandering the darkening streets of Paris, invisible to all. He had been walking for hours, making sure he knew the way to the French Ministry, retracing the route their carriage had taken the night before.

_The night before_. It felt so strange, to think that just a day ago Dumbledore had been talking and eating and smiling.

He'd stolen bread from a bakery for lunch - ridiculously easy when you had an invisibility cloak - and he ate more of it now, settling down on a park bench.

"_Calortendo,_" he whispered, after making sure he wouldn't be overheard. He made a circular motion with his wand, as if drawing a circle around the bench, before flicking it back at himself. As soon as the spell completed, he felt warm again, as if someone had turned the heating up, pushing away the rapidly cooling Parisian air. Nodding at his success, he turned his attention to the bench itself. It was a fairly simple thing: wooden slats held together by metal bars. He should be able to do something with it.

"_Mutatio Lignum,_" he said, giving each slat a short, sharp tap. The wood rippled before stretching and expanding to form a solid plank. That was the easy bit: mutating an object was much simpler than transforming it. But he could give it a go - they'd covered the _Verto_spell that year, though this was more complicated than anything they had to do in class. He didn't know the Latinate marker for 'mattress', but he knew that with sufficient skill you could do away with markers altogether.

"_Lignum verto!_" he said, more forcefully this time, and he twisted his wand slowly in the Third Corkscrew movement. As he did, the wood began to transform: it puffed up somewhat, and the edges looked like they had been sewn. However, it retained its colour and pattern. Tentatively, Harry gave it a feel. The wood had turned slightly spongy on the top, but it was far from a fully successful transfiguration. Still, it would work well enough.

He lay down and pulled out Dumbledore's Dossier. He began flicking through the pages, just looking at the photographs - though occasionally he was interested enough in a person to read more. He was looking for four people in particular: the four men from that morning, who had been with Edwards. Being able to name them all would help when he went to the Aurors. Unfortunately, the dossier was several thousand pages long, and Harry was having trouble finding any of them.

"Time for bed, Ginny," said Mr. Weasley, knocking on her door as Harry lay down on his improvised bed. While transfiguring the bench in Paris, she'd left the bathroom and got into her pyjamas.

"Night, dad," Harry said, snuggling into the cosy covers. She still felt very strange calling Mrs. and Mr. Weasley 'mum' and 'dad'. She'd dreamed of being able to say "mum" all her life, dreamed of having a dad to say goodnight to. But now it was marred by deceit.

"Goodnight, Gingin," said Mr. Weasley, and he waved his wand, leaving Harry in darkness.

She didn't stay lying in the bed for long. The discomfort of the park bench was keeping him awake, and he'd long since found that he couldn't sleep with one body while the other remained awake. So, trying to stay quiet, she slipped back out of her bed and rummaged through a pile of clothes. It was annoying that she couldn't even use a light charm - the Restriction on Underage Sorcery really was a silly law. Still, it didn't take long to find what she was looking for: a bundle of invisible cloth wrapped around a tiara.

She sat on the bed and placed it in front of her, unwrapping it carefully. It sat heavily on the covers, and the gold glinted darkly as it reflected what little moonlight came through her window. Somehow, some part of Voldemort's mind was inside. She shifted nervously at the thought. It was like the diary - the diary which had originated this chain of events. If there were two, could there be more? Had Voldemort littered Hogwarts with them, traps for unwary students? Contingency plans for the future? Harry didn't know. They were unlike any other magic she knew of, or had even heard of. Magic that dealt with the mind was obscure and powerful. They'd learn Obliviation in sixth year Charms, but that was the only real mind magic studied at Hogwarts, as far as she knew.

He had beaten the diary. He had fooled Dumbledore, more or less. She had held off this tiara, though it was a close thing. And now, he had two minds. Two brains. _The power he knows not_. Two bodies were useful, for sure, but having two minds was where his real advantage lay. He needed to learn how to harness that power, if he was going to be Voldemort's equal.

And who better to teach her than Voldemort himself?

Decision made, she reached out and touched the tiara.

She was ready for it this time. She realised now, looking back, that last time Voldemort had gained a foothold in her mind before she had even realised what was happening. After that, resistance had been pointless.

This time was different. She was aware of what she was doing, and focused on her own mind. She felt it, the moment Voldemort entered her, and not just because her scar - invisible, but there nonetheless - began to burn. Last time Voldemort had used brute force. This time, it seemed, he was going for a more subtle approach.

She reached out to pick up the tiara properly, intending to put it on. She could learn so much more, she thought, if she could practice at the same time as wearing Ravenclaw's legendary diadem.

She stopped just before she placed it on her head. She didn't know anything about Ravenclaw's diadem, and she most certainly didn't want to put the cursed object on. She examined the thought, focusing, and realised that it was not her own. She shook her head, struggling to clear her mind of the alien thought. It was extremely difficult - it kept popping up again and again, and each time she moved to put the diadem on. But each time she recognised the alien bent of her thoughts quicker, and each time she found it easier to banish.

Perhaps the diadem was too dangerous to keep. She should try to destroy it, she thought. She knew the incantation: _Terror Infernus_. She could control the cursed flame, she knew she could. She reached for her wand and prepared the spell. Her wand began to smoke.

And then, once again, she caught herself. What spell had she been about to cast? Not one she knew of, that's for sure. Once more she tried to clear her mind of the alien thought, telling herself that she wanted to use the diadem for practice. She didn't want to destroy it - not yet - and certainly not with some unknown curse.

She sighed with relief - she could have killed herself, had she cast Fiendfyre in that bedroom - and put the diadem on.

_Damn it!_

Voldemort's mind slammed into her own like the Hogwarts Express, physically rocking Harry backwards with the strength of the attack. She bit down on a pillow, holding in a scream. Memories flashed through her mind. She was confronting Quirrel in front of the Mirror of Erised. She was talking with Tom Riddle. She was stabbing the diary with a basilisk fang. _The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches..._

_No!_Harry thought, and he rallied with both his minds. He would not be beaten. There was no Dumbledore to save him now. There would be no cavalry to the rescue. It was just him and Voldemort.

She took all thoughts of the prophecy and shunted them into Harry's mind, hiding them from Voldemort by emptying her own mind of the knowledge. Voldemort tried to follow the trail, somehow discerning a connection between the two bodies. Harry panicked and split his thoughts further, separating his minds almost entirely. It confused Voldemort, and suddenly Harry had the advantage. She focused on her thoughts and concentrated, trying to slow the whirlwind of images and memories that Voldemort was provoking. Instead of resisting it, she embraced it, trying to force herself to linger on memories as long as she could, rather than letting Voldemort riffle through her mind like a filing cabinet.

Her thoughts stilled somewhat, though Voldemort was still there, still trying to dig up important knowledge, still trying to turn her mental voice in unnatural directions. She began to worry that she couldn't beat him. So, pushing through the pain in his scar, he went on the attack. Harry dived into Voldemort's mind by instinct alone, trying to exert dominance. _The diadem - what is it?_ he thought, and Voldemort thought it too. A word occurred to Harry as if it were a memory of his own:_ horcrux_. _That word..._

_He is a horcrux. So long as Harry lives, Voldemort will endure._

And then the world exploded in pain. Voldemort was _furious_. He wasn't trying to hurt her any more. He wasn't trying to find her secrets. He was trying to _destroy_her - to take control of her body. Fire ripped through her veins and her body spasmed. She let out a short scream, before biting once more on the pillow.

This wasn't just Voldemort's mind. This was something else. It was like Voldemort himself were there, trying to possess her. But Harry possessed a strong will of his own. In desperation, he tried something new. Instead of keeping his minds separate, he brought them together.

For the first time in weeks he had a unified consciousness, and it felt _good_. He could think faster - much faster. He could see patterns he hadn't seen before. Ideas occurred to him that before were obscure. And he could see now what Voldemort had been trying to hide from him - a thought Voldemort had been preventing from surfacing in Harry's mind. It was obvious.

Harry reached up, and knocked the diadem off her head.

Voldemort's presence instantly diminished to almost nothing. Harry's thoughts divided once more - it had taken supreme effort to keep them unified. After what she had just gone through, it took just a final push to eject Voldemort from her mind, and once more she was alone.

Her sheets were soaked in sweat and she ached all over - in both bodies. But despite the pain, Harry smiled. She had learnt a lot, that was for sure.

"Ginny, are you okay?" came a voice through the door. It was Bill. "I heard you scream."

Harry quickly threw the invisibility cloak back over the diadem, just before Bill opened the door.

"I'm okay," she said as he squinted at her through the dark. "Just a nightmare."

"Alright," said Bill, looking worried. "If you need anything, you know where to find me."

As soon as he left, Harry hid the diadem again, careful not to touch it. She was exhausted, and could not afford another battle with Voldemort. She returned to bed, thinking about what she had just learnt while continuing to flick through Dumbledore's dossier.

She'd learnt that she needed practice at clearing her mind of thoughts: both those which were not her own, and those which she wished to hide. She'd survived by cheating, using her unique power to evade Voldemort's attack. Who knew if Voldemort would be able to figure out a way around that, or if she'd always be able to do it? What if she needed to be using both bodies while engaged in a mental struggle? She needed to get good at protecting her thoughts normally, without using her special ability.

So she practiced then, not seeing any reason to wait. She tried to silence her thoughts, or focus on certain ones. She tried to think of nothing. She tried to think of two contradictory things at once, and believe both. All these things would be useful, she thought. Mind magic, Harry decided, was nothing more or less than the mastery of your own thoughts.

It was past midnight when he finally found one of Dumbledore's murderers. He found the entry by luck, as he'd taken to turning to random pages after he had failed to even get to the Bs in an hour.

_Mercado Reya, Felipe. Castillian. 76 years old. Pureblood. The current Duke of Castille and head of the Reya family. Educated at Beauxbatons Academy of Magic, where he was top in his year - partly attributable to natural talent, but also to the extensive tutoring he underwent as the successor to Catalina Reya Diaz. He has two daughters and five grandchildren. Naturally, Felipe is an extraordinarily rich wizard, with a fortune equivalent to over a million galleons. Felipe became Duke at the early age of 35, when his mother died in mysterious circumstances. I have been unable to find any evidence of foul play, but it would not be uncharacteristic of the man. A Dark wizard of some skill, the Duke is a dangerous wizard to duel, and has knowledge of many pieces of obscure magic - no doubt his family's famous library has something to do with this. However, a suitably skilled Senior Auror should be able to defeat him. Voldemort met with the Duke five times over the course of the 1970s, and I believe they would have forged an alliance, had Voldemort not fallen. The Duke's cousin Juan Mercado Lopez seeks to usurp his position. While distasteful, I believe it wise to encourage this ambition, given Felipe's support of Voldemort._

_I might be a bit out of my depth_, Harry thought. Edwards, while powerful, was young, and just a governor. The Reya family were one of the most powerful in all Europe, and Felipe was the ruler of an entire nation. And Harry wanted to bring him to justice.

_Small steps_, he thought. Once he reached the Minister, or the Aurors, he could decide how much to say about Reya. As much as he disliked the idea, it might be best to just go after Edwards, at first.

But Harry wouldn't rest until they were all punished. Whoever they were, and whatever positions of power they may possess, they would pay for what they'd done.

* * *

><p>Harry woke at dawn. The air had the crisp feel of a bright summer's morning - the kind that promised a long day of lounging in the garden. Not for Harry, though. He had a mission.<p>

"_Finite,_" he said, cancelling the warming charm, before staring at his bed-bench. They hadn't covered Untransfiguration in class. He couldn't leave it how it was, though - Muggles would see it. Shrugging, he decided to simply transfigure it again - it wouldn't be the same as the original, but a bench was a bench.

The Statute of Secrecy upheld, Harry made sure the invisibility cloak was wrapped firmly around him before setting off for the heart of French magic.

The _Palais de Triomphe_was a truly gargantuan building, Harry had been told - probably twice the size of Hogwarts. It was one of the many neo-classical buildings constructed by Grindelwald which had outlasted the man himself. Intended to be his headquarters for the government of all Western Europe, even today his magic saturated the walls; enchantments of shocking power and complexity were layered over every inch of the building.

When Harry had visited the day before, the place had been quiet, with many workers on summer leave. As Harry approached the main entrance, however, he realised that everything had changed. It was chaos.

It looked like a riot was taking place. Ministry wizards were running in every direction, shouting at each other, sending paper messages flying off with their wands. Through it all hammered the steady crack of apparition as more and more people arrived at the Ministry, adding to the pandemonium. Watching it all, positioned in front of the great marble columns, stood stern wizards wearing dark red robes - the Aurors. Their wands were in their hands, and even as Harry watched another squad of ten apparated in, dispersing into the crowd, trying fruitlessly to calm the storm.

Harry edged his way into the panicking mass, mindful of his invisibility: if people started bumping into him, the aurors would notice for sure. His progress was slow, but he managed to dodge and shuffle his way to the steps. A young, spotty wizard had set up a stall and was selling papers, and everyone was buying. Harry leaned over to look, and immediately understood.

"DUMBLEDORE DÉCÉDÉ" the paper declared, and the rest of the cover was a picture of Dumbledore's face, staring solemnly at readers. He snatched a copy, but couldn't understand the complicated French.

It didn't matter. He knew more than any paper. Soon, everyone else would know too.

Harry let the paper fall to the ground and joined the rush of people flowing into the Palace. The crowd was a blessing in disguise: with all the noise and distraction they were making, he would have been able to walk in even without an invisibility cloak.

The Palace's Atrium was larger than it had been during the Gala: the stone ceiling was higher now, and domed, painted with a giant fresco. The many pillars and fountains were gone too, giving the room an open, airy feel, almost as if he were outside. Sunlight streamed through the stained windows in many colours, and the walls on either side were lined with great archways leading to further, smaller, hallways and landings. Harry, however, was heading for the main staircase. He pushed through the throng of workers, avoiding the many stalls and kiosks.

The staircase - carpeted in red - led to a landing, where it split into five. Four of the five were busy, but the last - leading straight ahead - was more rarely used, and guarded by two Aurors. They didn't even blink when Harry walked straight past them - fine wizards they may have been, but Dumbledore was the only wizard who had ever seen through Harry's cloak.

The narrow passageway emerged into a small landing, almost like the front of a restaurant. A rather solid looking oak door barred the way to the Premier's Offices and another two Aurors guarded it. A third witch stood to one side, standing in front of what looked like a lectern.

This was as far as invisibility would get him. He walked back down to the middle of the stairs, making sure he was out of sight before removing his invisibility cloak. He rolled it up and hid it under his robes, before walking back up.

The aurors drew their wands as he approached.

"Qui es-tu?" one asked. He was a tall, strongly built man with a bored look about him. Harry never had to answer.

"'Arry Potter!" the other - a very short witch with brown hair - said, "tu es en vie!"

"Je voudrais voir le Premier, s'il vous plaît," Harry said - he'd prepared what he wanted to say.

"Le Premier Ministre?" said the first Auror, "Non. Nous avons d'autres ordres."

"Jean-François veut te voir à l'Officedes Aurors. Nous avons des questions à te poser," the witch added, but she spoke too quickly for Harry to follow properly. He heard the word 'Auror', though, and relaxed. If he couldn't see the Premier, the Aurors were the next best thing. He just hoped that they had someone who spoke English.

"Viens avec moi, avorton," the first said, and he grabbed Harry roughly by the shoulder, before leading him through a side door that somehow Harry had not seen - some sort of repelling charm, no doubt. It led into a long corridor crafted out of plain grey stone. They passed through it briskly, emerging from the other end into a large, busy, open-plan office.

As they walked through the cubicles, the Auror barked "Batiste, Marcoux, avec moi!" and two more Aurors joined their group. Harry was beginning to wonder if he was going to see them all today: Aurors were an elite force, he knew. There couldn't be more than sixty of them in Britain, and surely France was the same.

Finally, they arrived at the far side of the room. There they entered another office: an individual one, with a large glass window looking out over the others.

"Attends ici."

The first Auror left them. Harry supposed he was meant to wait - maybe they were fetching their commander. He sat in silence: neither of his guards seemed in the mood to chat, and Harry's French wasn't good enough to ask them questions.

After five minutes the door opened, and a man walked in.

Harry looked at him and froze, a thrill of fear going through him.

The man was tall and handsome, with broad shoulders, black hair, and vivid blue eyes. There was no mistaking him. He was one of the five.

"Good morning, Harry Potter," he said, his English absolutely perfect. He could have come from Hampshire with an accent like that. "You've led us on a merry little chase, haven't you?"

Harry's jaw clenched. He remained silent as the man took a seat opposite him. He hadn't come prepared for this. He was trapped. But... the man seemed to want to play games.

"We have some questions for you, regarding the death of Albus Dumbledore," he said, and he placed a stone ear on the table between them. "Auror Batiste and Auror Marcoux will witness the questioning. Such a pity they speak no English."

And then he winked at Harry, as if they were sharing a great joke.

"Who are you?" Harry spat.

The man looked surprised.

"You don't know who I am?" He seemed to find that funny, for some reason. "Dumbledore did keep you on a short leash, didn't he? You'd think he would have told you about me... given that you murdered my entire family."

_No..._

"My name, Harry Potter, is Jean-François Flamel. I am the Head Auror of the French Ministry of Magic. Didn't you know?"

Harry's heart sank as he realised just how outmaneuvered he was. His plan had been doomed from the start. Jean-François Flamel, Head Auror: the most powerful man in France. Felipe Mercado Reya, Duke of Castille: the most powerful man in the Iberian Peninsula. Together with Edwards - a man of not insignificant importance himself - and two others, they had brought about the death of Dumbledore. And now Harry was within their grasp.

Flamel seemed to enjoy watching Harry's moment of realisation.

"Yes, funny how these things work, isn't it?" he said. He was clearly relishing every moment. "Now, let us begin. Where were you at the time of Dumbledore's death?"

"In the street outside, fetching milk, as you know," Harry said, determined to record as much evidence as he could. "And where were you, Flamel? Did you cast the curse, or one of your friends?"

If anything, Flamel looked even more amused.

"Now, now, Harry, none of that." He tapped the ear with his wand - long and thin, made of some dark wood - and Harry's voice came back out, clear as day: "I was in the house, with Dumbledore," his voice said.

Harry looked to the two Aurors acting as witnesses. They didn't move an inch.

"I think you'll find, Harry, that every Auror in this office is loyal to me. Now... next question: upon Dumbledore's death, why did you not come immediately to the Aurors?"

"It's a good thing I didn't!" he said angrily, "I was right, when I thought you'd be waiting for me: you and Edwards and Reya too. I should have gone straight back to England!"

"Bravo, Harry, you know our names... or some of us, anyway. But I think your answer could be improved somewhat, don't you?"

He touched his wand to the ear again.

"It was an accident, I swear! I didn't mean to do it!" said Harry's voice. Harry gaped, realisation setting in. They were trying to set him up. They were going to make people think he killed Dumbledore. Flamel shook his head, as if disappointed in Harry.

"Oh, Harry, you poor boy... what will everyone say when they find out? Why, they may even send you to Azkaban! After all, the Killing Curse is Unforgivable."

Harry wanted to shout, to scream, to rage. But he held his tongue, and sat in silence, quivering with anger. He wouldn't give Flamel anything more.

"Last question, I think, Mr. Potter. Did you kill Albus Dumbledore?"

Harry remained silent. He hadn't killed Dumbledore, but there was someone he felt like he could kill right now.

"No answer?" said Flamel. He didn't sound too disappointed. "No matter. I think we have what we need. Excuse me for a moment, Mr. Potter. Evidence has to be filed, you know - here at the Auror division we take proper handling of evidence very seriously."

He chuckled, and walked out of the office holding the ear. Harry wondered what was going to happen next. With that fake evidence, they'd probably arrest him. And then he'd be sent to prison.

That couldn't happen. He was innocent, and the world had to know. Not just for himself. The world had to know about Dumbledore's killers - now more than ever. Europe was being led by a cabal of Dark wizards, and they didn't even know it.

He still had his wand and cloak. This was his chance - before Flamel returned. He shifted in his seat, positioning his right hand next to his left sleeve, where his wand lay. The Aurors weren't even looking at him.

_They always underestimate children_, Harry thought as he gripped his wand.

"_Expelliarmus_!" Harry shouted as he drew his wand. There was a flash of silver light and both Aurors were thrown off their feet and into the office wall, their wands flying out of their hands.

Harry didn't wait for them to recover. He threw on his invisibility cloak and ran out the door, choosing a direction at random.

"Il s'échappe!" someone cried - one of the Aurors he'd disarmed - but Harry was already away, and invisible. He ran through the corridors of the French Ministry of Magic, picking doors at random to go through, trying to lose any pursuit.

But try as he might, invisible though he was, no matter how many doors he ran through or how many turns he took, he could hear the shouting of Aurors behind him. At last he found a large staircase. He ran down it, hoping to leave the building.

Aurors were waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs, pointing at him as if he wasn't invisible. Red light shot towards him, but Harry had jumped to the side the moment he saw their wands moving. The spells flew over his head and he scrambled to get up, beginning to panic. If only he had his broom!

More Aurors were approaching from the top of the stairs now, which left only one choice. Harry ran towards them, spells still flying over his head, but before he reached them, he threw himself into a door. It led into a reception area.

**Le Ministère de la Justice**, the sign declared, and Harry remembered something.

He ran past the receptionist - who was staring through him at the open door in confusion - and, taking a gamble, picked one of the corridors. The gamble paid off. There was a door at the end of the corridor. The plaque on the door read:

**Albert Delacour**

**Directeur**

Harry burst through the door and threw off his invisibility cloak. Delacour jumped out of his seat, his wand drawn.

"Help me!" Harry cried.

Delacour hesitated for just a moment, then nodded. He waved his wand and the door slammed shut with a pop. With another wave the fireplace came to life, and Harry understood.

He moved to the fire and grabbed some green powder from the pot, throwing it into the flames before entering himself. As soon as he did, Delacour shouted "La Maison Delacour!".

He fled the Ministry in a flash of green fire.

He was out.

* * *

><p>An hour later Harry was sitting opposite Albert in the Delacours' kitchen.<p>

"'Ere you go, 'Arry," Fleur said, passing him some onion soup and bread with a bright smile. She was wearing Muggle clothes - jeans, and a tight t-shirt - and somehow her normality made her even more attractive.

"Thank you," said Harry. He wasted no time, tearing a hunk of bread and dipping it into the soup. He was quite hungry - she'd have to get up soon at the Weasleys. The smells of Molly's cooking could only be resisted for so long.

"Eet is 'ard to imagine," said Albert, finally regaining his voice after listening to Harry's tale. His shoulders were slumped, and he looked defeated. "Reya, oui. We 'ave known him to be an ally to ze Dark Lord for some time. But Flamel? Zis is grave news indeed. 'E 'as always hated Dark magic. What could turn him against Dumbledore so?"

Harry shifted uncomfortably.

"The Philosopher's Stone," he said. "He blames me and Dumbledore for its destruction."

Albert's eyebrows shot up.

"Ze Philosopher's Stone is no more?" he said. Apparently Dumbledore hadn't shared the news, and the Flamels were notoriously private. "Yes. That would do it, I think." He gave Harry a piercing gaze. "I suppose 'e _is_dead, yes? This is not a trick - some ploy to expose the Dark Lord?"

How Harry wished it was. He could imagine it now: Dumbledore in all his power, striding into the French Ministry amidst fire and water, casting down all those who had killed him. The mere thought sent a shiver down his spine.

But it was not meant to be. There was no spell to reawaken the dead.

"No," said Harry, "no trick. I saw him myself. He's dead."

Albert nodded, and stared at the table. "I feared as much."

"Ze world is going mad," said Fleur, and she pointed her wand - made of some silvery wood - at the wireless sitting on a kitchen counter.

"...for those of you who have just joined us: Albus Dumbledore, the greatest wizard of the age, has died in Paris," said the English presenter. "The Minister is in emergency session with the Wizengamot as we speak. The session is Spelled Doors, but half an hour ago issued an immediate ban on trading at the London Merchant's Guild, after fully half the nation's wealth was wiped out in just ten minutes..."

Harry frowned. He didn't really understand business, but that seemed silly.

"How can that be true?" he said. "I mean, I still have the same amount of gold in my vault, don't I?"

"Indeed," said Albert, now staring distractedly out the window. "But now zat gold is worth less, if you tried to sell it. Ze same for mercury, sea salt, and the rest. Not to mention securities and bonds. Everyone's panicking. And for good reason. Dumbledore, dead! I don't understand how it is possible. A duel capable of killing Dumbledore should have left half of Paris in flames... but zere is nothing."

Harry looked at Fleur hopelessly. Her father was clearly in deep shock. Would the Weasleys be the same? Concerned for her new family, Harry finally left her bed and walked downstairs, trying to keep quiet.

The cooking had stopped. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were sitting with Bill at the kitchen table in silence, listening to the radio. All were pale faced.

"Come, 'Arry," Fleur said, and she took his hand. "Let me show you my room."

Harry let himself be led away, trying - and failing - not to think of all the things Fleur could show him in her room.

"Oh, Ginny!" Mrs. Weasley said when she saw her, and she got up to draw her into a crushing hug. Harry got the feeling it was as much for her own comfort as Harry's. "Isn't it terrible?"

"Shh!" said Bill, and he turned the volume up. "The Minister's about to speak."

"...and the Wizengamot are filing out now..." said the presenter. "Yes, it's just been confirmed, the Minister is to address the nation in the Atrium... we're heading there now..." The next few minutes were filled with the sound of rushed footsteps from the radio as Fleur showed Harry the portrait of her Veela "grandmuzzer". Eventually: "We've arrived at the Atrium, and just in time. A crowd has gathered; Cornelius Fudge is calling for silence. Ladies and Gentleman: the Minister for Magic."

A brief moment of static followed, before Cornelius Fudge's started to speak.

"Wizards and witches of Britain. Today is an historic day. A tragic day. Albus Dumbledore is dead," he began. "However, there is more. What has not been reported so far is that - that Harry Potter is missing, presumed dead." Harry almost called out in surprise, before controlling herself. Mrs. Weasley had less luck: her legs gave out and she fell to the floor, devastated. And on the radio, the crowd erupted into wails and cries of disbelief.

In that moment, Harry first understood what he meant to the people of Britain. It was humbling.

_"And zis is 'Le Survivant'," said Fleur, passing Harry one of her many books with a wicked grin. His cheeks reddened as he realised it was about him._

"**Silence!**" shouted a woman's voice, clearly Sonorised. The crowd fell silent as Bill helped Mrs. Weasley into a chair.

"Yes, thank you, Amelia," said Fudge, clearly flustered. There was the sound of paper being shuffled. "How and why this has occurred has yet to be determined. We shall be working with the French Aurors to investigate this murder."

Harry's anger at Flamel returned viciously at the mention of the Aurors. The British Aurors were going to be led on a wild goose chase - one that no doubt would lead to a certain earful of fake evidence.

"For make no mistake," Fudge continued, "murder it was. Albus Dumbledore did not die of natural causes, but fell to the Killing Curse."

The crowd gasped again and exploded into whispers, but Fudge continued regardless, hitting his stride.

"In light of this, after careful consideration and long discussion, the Wizengamot issues the following edicts: Firstly, that all trading on equities, bonds and securities shall cease for a period of one week. Secondly, we announce the immediate promotion of Bartemius Crouch to the position of Mugwump, taking up Dumbledore's place in the International Confederation of Wizards. And lastly..." Fudge paused, as if about to take a deep plunge into cold water, "...lastly, the Wizengamot has ordered the immediate reinstatement of the Warlock's Circle."

This time no sonorus would settle the crowd. They exploded into noise, much of it angry, and Harry thought she heard the sounds of several spells being cast.

"Good god," said Arthur, his hands trembling.

"I don't understand," Harry said. "What's the Warlock's Circle?"

Bill looked at Harry in disbelief. It seemed this was the kind of knowledge children raised in the magical world should just know.

"A Ministry-backed society of Dark wizards, created to assassinate Grindelwald," he said as he busied himself with making tea. "By the end, they were almost as bad as the man they hunted. The Ministry had real trouble shutting them down, after Grindelwald's war - they didn't even reinstate them for You-Know-Who."

Harry nodded, not sure what to think. How would Dumbledore have felt about Dark magic being used to avenge him?

_"I am going to my friend Amelie's 'ouse tomorrow - if eet isn't cancelled," Fleur said, flinging open her rather large wardrobe. "You can 'elp me decide what to wear, non?"_

_There was nothing like a pretty girl to make Dark wizards seem less important. Harry nodded his head eagerly, his head full of small lacy items. Sadly, Fleur had other ideas, holding various items of clothing up against herself, asking Harry's opinion._

"Rufus Scrimgeour shall take the command," Fudge said, once the aurors had forcefully quelled the audience. "They are charged to hunt down the killers of Albus Dumbledore and Harry Potter, and return their heads to the Ministry of Magic. They shall take no prisoners, and respect no borders. The Ministry authorises the use of any Dark magic which may aid in the completion of this task. Further, the full resources of the Department of Mysteries will be made available to them, and the Dementors of Azkaban are placed under their power. The Wizengamot declares the Warlock's Circle exempt from the 1643 Ban on Temporal Tampering, the 1356 Restriction of Alchemical Wizardry, and the 1896 Ban on Experimental Breeding. Rest assured, Britain shall recover from this tragic event..."

The speech then turned to more boring matters and Arthur turned the volume down. Harry took her cup of tea from Bill and sat at the kitchen table.

_"I think the longer skirt is better," Harry said as Fleur hovered in indecision, drawing on all his experience of being a girl. "The pattern is nice."_

_"Oui, you're right," she said, apparently quite pleased with Harry's decision. "Now I need a top to go with it, non?"_

_She turned her back to Harry and pulled her t-shirt off, revealing perfect skin and a very interesting bra strap. He could just about see the curve of her covered breasts either side of her body. _

_Harry gulped. He had, of course, seen girls in their underwear before. He shared a changing room with three girls before every Quidditch match, after all. But this was different. This was Fleur._

"Well," said Arthur, grimacing. "I think that's our trip to Egypt cancelled. Sorry, Bill, but I think we're going to need the money."

Bill nodded. "I understand, he said, "and you know that I can always help you out, dad. Cursebreaking is pretty well paid..."

"You do more than enough already!" said Mrs. Weasley fiercely. "That's _your_money. You work hard for it." She sniffed. "We'll be fine. Why, with a thousand galleons I dare say we can afford to buy Ron that broom he's always talking about."

Whenever the Weasleys spoke about money, Harry felt extremely awkward. She was painfully aware of her large pile of gold sitting within Gringotts. If only she could help them, somehow... but they were always so stubborn. Maybe if the idea came from one of their own?

_Having picked out several tops, Fleur looked over her shoulder and gave Harry a brilliant smile._

_"No peeking now!" she said - clearly not bothered in the slightest - and she turned around while putting on a camisole, her breasts moving and stretching in fascinating ways as she raised and lowered her arms._

_Harry thought he might be in love._

"You know," she said slowly. She had to phrase this right. "Harry is always offering to help. Maybe we could...?"

"Could what?" said Mrs. Weasley, narrowing her eyes. "Take that poor boy's money - the only thing he has of his parents? If he's even alive! Oh, poor Harry..." She began to cry again.

Harry flushed, embarrassed and annoyed with herself. She'd forgotten that she was supposed to be dead.

"I can't believe you said that," said Bill, frowning once more. "After he saved your life, the first thing you think about is his money?"

"He's alive. I know he is," she said, trying to cover for herself by sounding naive. "And if he wants to give us some money... not much, just a little bit..."

Arthur sighed.

"Do you know what people say about us behind our backs, Ginny?"

Harry knew lots of things people said about the Weasleys, but she wasn't going to take a guess.

"They say we befriended Harry for his fame," Arthur said, and there was anger in the lines of his face. "For his money. For the connections it could bring us. Like we were Malfoys." His lips thinned. "No. I refuse to give any credence to that rumour. We won't take any money from Harry - ever. And that's the last I'll hear of it."

Arthur didn't get angry often, but when he did, it was scarier than anything Mrs. Weasley said.

"Well... okay," Harry said. The atmosphere suddenly felt rather strained. "Well, I guess I'll go and get ready for the day."

She fled the kitchen as quickly as she could, without looking like she was running away. Being a Weasley was complicated.

_"Parfait!" Fleur announced as she decided on a top. Harry was rather disappointed it had come to an end. "You 'ave been most 'elpful, 'Arry," she said, changing back into her original outfit. "And I zink you are feeling a bit better too, non?"_

_Harry blushed, embarrassed that he had been caught. But Fleur didn't seem to mind at all._

_"Come," she said, taking his hand again, guiding him out of her room. "You must see ze greenhouses. My muzzer is growing 'Cheerful Cherries'. If you ask nicely, maybe she will let us have some."_

* * *

><p>"Goodnight, Harry," Mrs. Delacour said, sitting on the edge of his bed. Harry - now washed and dressed in conjured pyjamas - had been given the guest bedroom for the night. "We'll see about getting you back to England tomorrow, yes?"<p>

There was nothing Harry wanted more.

"Okay," he said.

"Sleep well," she replied, and she got up to leave. "Albert and I will be downstairs if you need us, and Fleur and Gabrielle are just down the hall."

"Thank you," Harry said, just before she left. She turned to look at him, and Harry couldn't read her expression. Without saying another word she tapped the light switch - magical, not Muggle, of course - and left Harry in darkness.

She was already in bed at the Burrow - the Weasleys being somewhat stricter about bedtimes than the Delacours - and restless. While he'd spent the afternoon with Fleur, eating so many cherries that Mrs. Delacour had been forced to cast a sobering charm on them, she'd been shut in her room, too scared to talk to the Weasleys lest she make another mistake. So she had experimented with the horcrux, determined to understand what it was - and accordingly, what she was.

She had made no progress in that regard. However, using what she had learnt the last time, she was now able to avoid putting the diadem on, so long as she remained focused. But that too presented a problem: unless she put it on, the amount she could learn from the horcrux was limited. But if she put it on again, who knew if she'd manage to escape, like she had before?

For now, she decided to play safe, practicing resisting the weaker attacks. There was plenty of time for riskier action later.

_Tap tap._

Harry stilled. He thought he heard a sound.

_Tap tap._

There! He got out of bed, trying to locate it.

_Taptaptap_. More insistent, this time. It was coming from his wardrobe. He grabbed his wand from underneath his pillow and opened the wardrobe door.

Inside there were clothes, and nothing else.

_Taptaptaptaptap._

It wasn't coming from inside the wardrobe - it was coming from behind it. Harry knocked back, and received exited tapping in response.

"Okay..." he said to himself. "_Alohomora_."

The back of the wardrobe swung open. On the other side were Fleur and her little sister, Gabrielle.

"Enfin!" whispered Gabrielle. She didn't speak much English.

"Come on," said Fleur, gesturing for him to follow, "Look what I have!"

She brandished a half-empty bottle of Firewhisky at him.

"Je veux un peu!" said Gabrielle as Harry climbed through the wardrobe to the room next door, pulling the door ajar behind him. He wanted to get back, after all.

Fleur pulled out three shot glasses, grinning.

"My fazer has never let me have it," she said as she poured three equal measures, "but today he left ze bottle after drinking himself silly. We shall try it together, yes?"

Harry nodded nervously. He didn't feel comfortable drinking Albert's drink without his permission, but... Fleur was rather pretty, and he didn't want to look boring. So he raised his glass with the others, and said "santé!" before knocking it back.

The drink was not called Firewhisky for nothing. The amber liquid felt hot in his mouth, and when he tried to swallow it his tongue rebelled. Gagging, he sprayed the drink back out, thankfully missing Fleur and Gabrielle. They seemed to find it hilarious.

"Ah, you English cannot hold your drink!" Fleur teased.

"Again!" Gabrielle said through her giggles.

Fleur went to pour another round, but suddenly stopped.

"What-" Harry began, but he was quickly shushed. Fleur held her finger to her lips.

There were footsteps outside. They walked past the door, and entered Harry's room.

"You said he'd be here," said a man with a strong German accent. Harry didn't recognise the voice.

"I assure you, he was here but five minutes ago," replied another, and this Harry did recognise. It was Albert.

Fleur's eyes widened, and she crept forward, peeking through the thin gap Harry had left when he closed the wardrobe door.

"He can't have gone far," said Albert nervously. "We'll search the grounds. Come."

The sound of footsteps came and went, and the three children were alone once more. The firewhisky lay forgotten. Fleur turned to Harry, and she looked severely shaken.

"But... papa... he wouldn't-" she said, and Harry thought she was crying.

"What's the matter?" he asked. He gripped his wand. He had a bad feeling about this. "Who was it? Did you know them?"

Fleur wiped her eyes and scowled.

"Only from ze papers. It was _him_, 'Arry. 'Ans Schiller."

It took only a moment for Harry to process it. Hans Schiller, the last of Grindelwald's lieutenants. He was supposed to be locked up, facing trial by the ICW for war crimes. Instead, he was walking free. And he was looking for Harry.

And Albert was helping him.

Betrayal hurts in a way like no other. It stuck physically, right in the stomach. Harry wanted to throw up.

"You must run," said Fleur, pulling out her own wand. "They must not find you."

Harry looked at Fleur, suddenly seeing her anew. To defy her father for him, to risk her life even, when she barely knew him? It was inconceivable.

It was the kind of thing he would do.

"My cloak," he said at last, "my invisibility cloak. I can use it to get out."

Fleur nodded. "I'll get it," she said, and she slipped into Harry's room, wand at the ready. Luckily, it was truly empty.

She returned with the silvery cloak and passed it to Harry.

"My books," he added, realising that they would slow him down. "My photo album and Dumbledore's book. Can you hide them?"

"I will," said Fleur, and she looked out the window. "Come, there is not much time. I can see them searching the greenhouses."

She opened the window and the cool night's air came into the room. Harry remembered he was wearing his pyjamas._ No time to change now._

"I'll lower you," Fleur said as Harry wrapped the cloak around himself and climbed onto the windowsill.

"Thank you," he said.

"Now!" Fleur replied, and, trusting her, Harry let go.

He saw Fleur wave her wand and his fall slowed. He floated down from the third floor to the back garden like a feather on the breeze. When he looked up, the window was already closed.

His pursuers were still in the greenhouses, if the wandlight there was any indication. Harry decided to try to get round to the front of the house and leave through the front garden. He tried the back door, and found it unlocked.

The kitchen in which he had sat earlier with Albert was dark. He could see, sitting on the stove, the large pot that contained the soup he'd had earlier. Trying to keep quiet, Harry crept through the kitchen, then the dining room, finally emerging in the small entrance hall. The Delacours' house wasn't big - sitting in the middle of Paris as it was - but it was well furnished, and magically expanded.

Harry looked around. He couldn't see anyone. He walked to the front door - running would just draw attention - and opened it.

Jean-François Flamel was waiting on the other side.

"Hello, Harry," he said and he waved his wand, summoning Harry's cloak. Harry raised his wand. Flamel laughed.

"Come now, Harry, you don't actually think that -"

"_Expellia-_"

Before he could finish, Flamel's wand flashed and the spell was blocked.

"_Furnuncu-_" Harry tried again, only to be blocked once more.

"Enough of that, I think," said Flamel, and there was a flash of red.

* * *

><p>Harry jumped out of her bed with a gasp, feeling like she'd been struck by lightning, and began to panic.<p>

She was alone.

It was like when you slept on your arm, and you woke up unable to move it. You knew it was still there, but you couldn't feel anything, or do anything.

In that first moment, she thought her other body might be dead.

But then, as she paced, she began to calm. No. If he were dead, she'd know. She could still sense the connection between the two bodies. Between the two minds. Her original body was still alive. Just... unconscious.

And captured.

Harry kicked her trunk with a curse, and then cursed again at the pain in her toes.

He'd been captured. Captured by Flamel and Reya and Edwards and now, it seemed, Schiller. At least now she knew four of the five.

Not that it would do any good. Who knew where they would take him - what they would do to him? Would they kill him? Torture him? Give him some sham trial and send him to prison?

Harry wouldn't let that happen. She wouldn't let them win. They thought they'd won - that it was over. But it was just beginning. They had no idea what Harry was. No idea that even as they locked him away, unconscious, he was plotting his own rescue.

In the end, the decision wasn't hard. She'd deal with the consequences later.

She got dressed. She briefly considered bringing her ratty invisibility cloak, but decided against it. Flamel had some way of seeing through it.

She left her room silently and walked downstairs. Everyone was in bed. Good.

The back door was unlocked. Once outside, she hurried to the broomshed.

"_Alohomora!_" she whispered, and the padlock clicked open. She expected an owl from the Ministry any moment now, but that didn't worry her. By the time Mr. and Mrs. Weasley saw it, she'd be long gone.

There were anti-flight enchantments around the house - made by Bill at his parents' request, Harry knew, after Fred and George managed to crash their brooms through Ron's window - so she'd have to walk to the orchard to fly off. But that was just five minutes walk. And what was five minutes walk compared to the long flight to France?

The orchard was creepy at night. Harry saw a fox chasing a rabbit, and an owl was hooting in one of the trees. Thinking she might get hungry during the flight, she went up on tiptoes to pick some apples.

She saw movement out of the corner of her eye, and she jumped back, brandishing her wand.

A huge, black, dog was sitting in front of her, staring. Harry backed away.

"Good dog..." she said, trying to sound friendly. "Good boy..."

And then the dog transformed into a man. He was tall, and haggard, and wearing torn up robes.

It was Sirius Black.

_End chapter three._


	4. Chapter 4

.

.

.

**In Essence Divided**

By Taure

_Chapter 4_

_._

_._

_._

"Stay where you are," said Harry, backing away with her wand pointed at Black. _Thirteen Muggles with one curse_.

The Death Eater appeared unconcerned. He pulled an apple off a tree and bit into it.

"What's your name, girl?" he said quietly. His voice was deep, casual, and carried a slightly mocking tone. Despite his ragged appearance, he spoke very properly - not unlike Draco Malfoy.

"Ginny," said Harry. "Ginny Weasley. Put the apple down."

Black ignored her.

"Well, then, Ginny Weasley, I apologise for this."

"Apologise for wh-"

Faster than Harry believed possible, Black lunged at her. Instinctively, she pulled her wand back, trying to keep him from snatching it - but he wasn't aiming for her wand. His fist slammed into her face with brutal force, knocking her back, the pain in her nose momentarily blinding. Stunned, she could do nothing but shout out as he punched her again, this time in the stomach, taking the wind out of her, before kicking the back of her knee. She collapsed to the ground, completely disabled.

"_Incarcerus,"_ she heard, and suddenly she was bound tightly in ropes. Still gasping for breath, her head ringing, her nose bleeding, she looked up at Black. He was holding her wand.

"Like I said," he said with a grimace, "sorry about that. But I have business in the house, and I don't want any interruptions."

"Don't you dare -" Harry gasped, interrupted by the need to swallow some blood.

Black looked amused. "You've got spunk, I'll give you that," he said. "_Silencio._ There. Don't want you shouting out now, do we?"

Harry tried to swear at the man, but no sound came out.

"It was nice meeting you, Ginny Weasley."

He then turned and walked away. Lying on her back as she was, he left her vision quickly, leaving Harry staring at the night's sky, swallowing her own blood. It was quite disgusting - metallic, slimy - but it was better than choking on it. She tried to roll onto her side, but she was bound quite thoroughly.

Those minutes were some of the longest of Harry's life. She lay there, imagining what dark deeds Sirius Black was performing within The Burrow, wondering how long it would be until anyone found her. And underneath it all was the ever present worry for her other body.

Footsteps approached much sooner than Harry expected. Black appeared again, looming tall above her. He looked angry.

"Where is he?" he snarled, "where's the rat?"

"What?" Harry said - her voice returned to her with a flick of Black's wand.

"The rat, girl!" He reached into a pocket and removed a worn piece of paper - a page torn from the Daily Prophet - and shoved it in her face. It was dominated by a picture of the Weasley family - all of them except Ginny - standing in the Atrium of the Ministry of Magic. "The pet rat, on the boy's shoulder: where is he?"

Black was frantic now, his hands shaking.

"Scabbers?" said Harry, completely confused. "He's Ron's. He should be in the house."

"Well, he isn't!" spat Sirius, and he took photograph back before beginning to pace, muttering to himself. He was clearly _not right_.

"Fuck!" he shouted, and there was a loud bang, followed by the sound of wood cracking. Harry couldn't see, but she guessed that the Weasleys now had one less apple tree.

At last, Black stopped pacing and went quiet. After several minutes, he returned to stand over Harry.

"_Episky,_" he said and, with a series of disconcerting crunching sounds, Harry's nose was healed. Black walked away again, and a moment later he said "_Evanesco!"_. The ropes around Harry disappeared. She went to stand immediately, but fell again when her legs were surprisingly weak. The ropes had been quite tight, and had cut off the blood. So she sat on the ground rubbing feeling back into her legs as Black stared at her. He was sitting with his back to a tree, examining her wand.

"What were you doing, before you saw me?" he asked. "Running away from home?"

"Something like that," she muttered. This didn't change anything. She still needed to get to Paris. She still had to rescue herself. But she needed her wand. "Can I have my wand back?" she asked, not really very hopeful.

"I ran away from home, when I was young," said Black softly, still fiddling with her wand. He seemed to be in a different world.

"Went to join your master, did you?" Harry asked. She knew she shouldn't provoke him, but it just slipped out.

He seemed to find that funny. He laughed - a quick, short, laugh, almost like a bark - and then sighed.

"Something of the opposite, little Miss Weasley. I went to join my brother."

Running away from home to join your brother? That didn't make much sense. But what did she care about it? He was a Death Eater.

"Can I have my wand? _Please_," she asked once more. Normally she'd never beg a Death Eater, but he seemed disinclined to kill her, and she really needed to go. Maybe he would let her.

Black looked up at last, and stared right into her eyes. It was rather uncomfortable.

"What's the rush?" he asked, and he sounded suspicious. "Are you really running away? Or are you running _to_ somewhere?"

All her practice with the horcrux paid off. She felt Black the moment he tried to enter her mind. He lacked both the elegance and power of Voldemort, and Harry found it relatively easy to control her thoughts. She could feel what Black was trying to do: he was trying to make her dwell on why she wanted to run away. She refused to allow it. Unfortunately, while she had the ability to resist Black, she lacked the skill to fool him. He pulled out of her mind with a look of shock.

"Where did you learn Occlumency?" he said. Harry noticed that the wand was now pointing at her once more.

Occlumency. Was that something to do with horcruxes?

"Occlu-what?" she said. Maybe he'd be able to tell her what a horcrux was.

"Don't play stupid," he said, standing up. "Who taught you to defend your mind?"

This Occlumency thing was getting him quite agitated. It reminded Harry that she was dealing with Voldemort's second in command. This wasn't an idle chat - he was dangerous. Very dangerous.

"I learnt it from a book," she said, trying to pacify him. It was a mistake. A look of anger crossed his face and he flicked the wand. A phantom hand slapped Harry with a _crack_, hard enough to snap her head to one side.

"Don't lie to me! There _are_ no books on Occlumency. Do you think I'm stupid? I can count the number of Occlumens in Britain on my fingers. Which one taught you?"

"How do you know it, then, if there are no books?" said Harry angrily, holding a hand to her stinging cheek.

Black laughed. "Who do you think invented it? The Blacks have always guarded their secrets well. Now, for the last time: who taught you Occlumency? Narcissa? Bellatrix? _Snape?_"

He spat the last word, and there seemed to be some definite hate there. Harry hesitated. She couldn't say "Voldemort". That would lead to awkward questions, and Black would probably take the diadem from her.

"Honestly, I just kinda... figured it out," she said. It was mostly true. Her ability to defend her mind came from trial by fire, from instincts honed by practice, not through any explanations or lectures.

Black looked impressed.

"A right little Dumbledore, aren't you?" he joked, and he sat back down, his anger passing as quickly as it came. But now it was Harry's turn to be angry. How dare he, a Death Eater, joke about Dumbledore?

"Don't say his name!" she spat, "not you, not now!"

"What am I supposed to call him? You Know Who?"

That was too much for Harry. She screamed and jumped at Black, intending to - well, intending to do _something_. But it was not to be. Black still had her wand, and he was a grown wizard. Before she could reach him, she was upended and hoisted into the air by an ankle.

"Let me down!" she shouted, angry at her helplessness, not even caring that her dress had fallen and bunched around her ribs, not caring that he was a feared Death Eater.

Surprisingly, he cancelled the spell, and she was dumped unceremoniously onto the ground once more.

"That was unladylike," he said, but he seemed more amused than angry. "What set you off, anyway?"

Harry closed her eyes and tried to calm herself. Anger wouldn't get her anywhere here.

"Just... don't joke about Dumbledore. Not today. Not so soon after-"

"After what?" asked Black intently.

Could he really not know?

"After he was killed," she said, glaring at him.

It was like someone had punched the man in the stomach. He stepped back from her in shock, and put his hand against a tree for balance.

"Dumbledore... he's _dead_?"

"Yes," said Harry, confused. Surely a Death Eater should be rejoicing at the news?

"No," said Black in disbelief, shaking his head. "No. No-no-no! This isn't how it's supposed to happen. I'm supposed to kill Peter, and Dumbledore gets me a trial, and then I find Harry and -"

"Harry?" she asked. What was he talking about? Who was Peter? And he wanted another trial? None of it made sense.

"Harry Potter," said Black distractedly. He was pacing again. "He's my godson."

Harry stared at Black in shock. She had a godfather? And he was a _Death Eater_? It was all so crazy.

At last she found her voice.

"Harry... they think he's dead as well."

Sirius' head snapped around so quickly that she was surprised his neck didn't break.

"_What?_" he said, his voice little more than a whisper.

"He's not though," Harry said, and a plan began to form. "It's where I was going, before you arrived. I was going to rescue him."

"Rescue him?" There was disbelief in Black's voice. "What can a little girl do to rescue him?"

It was a good question. Flamel would take her apart as quickly as he had before. But Sirius Black? _That_ was another matter entirely. He'd killed thirteen Muggles with one curse. He had been Voldemort's second in command. And he seemed to have some twisted desire to help Harry. She could use him, and then, once Flamel was a stain on the wall, she'd hand Black over to the Dementors.

"I know where he is," she said - partly true. As soon as he woke, she'd know. "I can take you there. Together, we can rescue him."

Sirius looked at her for some time. She couldn't tell what he was thinking.

"Tell me where Harry is, and I'll get him," he said at last. "There's no reason for you to come."

"No," said Harry. She didn't trust him. "I'm coming. And I want my wand."

"Persistent little bugger, aren't you?" he said with a laugh. "You must be a Gryffindor." He flipped her wand so that its handle was facing her. She took it. Things were looking up.

"So where is he?" said Black.

"Paris," she said, and she began walking back towards The Burrow. "We'll need to steal another broom for you."

"Wait, Weasley," he said, and he put a hand on her shoulder. She jumped at the close contact. "You were seriously going to fly to Paris? Are you insane?"

"How else are we going to get there?" she said.

"The train, of course!" he said. "Take my arm."

He was going to apparate them, then. This was her last chance to back out. He could be taking her to her death, for all she knew.

She had no choice. She put her arm through his, and they left The Burrow without a sound.

* * *

><p>"<em>Rennervate.<em>"

Harry jerked awake, the sudden return of dual consciousness making her stop walking in shock.

The black dog trotting beside her looked up and cocked its head. She cleared her head and resumed her walk down Platform Six and a Half, all the while focusing on France.

He was lying in a luxurious four poster bed with silk sheets. To one side of the bed was a large fireplace, around which were two armchairs. Flamel sat in one, Duke Mercado Reya in the other.

"Welcome to my home, Mr. Potter," said Flamel. Harry sat up and took a good look around. The room looked like something from Buckingham Palace. Every piece of furniture was wand crafted by a master, and there was a certain abundance of gold. An ounce more would have been gaudy. The hardwood floor was polished, and a large portrait was hanging above the fire.

"I hope you're well rested," the Frenchman continued with an insufferably smug tone.

"What's your game, Flamel?" Harry asked. He had no patience for playing around. He was tired of politics.

"No game, Potter," said Reya, standing. He was short and thin, his olive coloured skin pockmarked, his greying hair still showing a hint of black. "You are our guest."

Harry snorted. Sure, a "guest" that wasn't allowed to leave.

"I am not a cruel man, Harry," said Flamel, "I do not wish you pain or discomfort. As a show of good faith, I am even letting you have your wand."

Harry blinked in surprise when Flamel reached into his robes before tossing Harry his holly wand. He caught it easily before examining it, hardly believing that it was his. _They must really be confident in their abilities_, Harry thought.

"You will find that this room would give even the most talented wizards trouble, Harry. I have full confidence in its ability to hold _you_."

Harry didn't respond to the slight. He'd escaped from Flamel once. He could do it again. He'd have to do it before they could send him to prison with that fake evidence, though.

"And how long will I be your... guest? Until the trial?" he asked.

Flamel and Reya shared a look and, to Harry's great surprise, burst into uproarious laughter.

"You still haven't figured it out?" said Flamel at last, still chuckling occasionally.

Harry tried to think. What could they be talking about?

"Ah, Potter, you have so much still to learn," said Flamel. "What do you think would happen if you had a trial?"

Harry frowned. "I'd tell everyone the truth about you," he said, and as soon as he said it, it was obvious. There would be no trial. Why would Flamel want a trial? He was the Boy Who Lived - his voice still carried weight. People would listen to him. Giving Harry a public platform was the worst possible thing for Flamel right now.

"Did you actually think that you were able to overcome two of my Aurors?" said Flamel, and he looked like he was going to laugh again. "And then avoid capture by twenty more? How bad do you think their aim is?"

Reya chuckled.

"But... the evidence. The ear," Harry said.

"Filed safely in the Auror Office," said Flamel, "without you around to contest it. Rather suspicious activity, attacking two Aurors and then escaping, don't you think, Mr. Potter?"

He'd been played even more thoroughly that he had thought.

"If I hadn't run..." he said, thinking out loud.

"I dare say it would have been rather inconvenient. I would have had to arrest you and arrange a trial. Very messy. I must thank you Harry, for playing your part so perfectly. Your trial shall be held in your absence, since you are unfortunately 'on the run'. Between the Ear and your escape, I'm sure you will be convicted."

Harry wanted to scream. It wasn't _fair_. This went completely beyond anything he was used to. Compared to these men, Draco Malfoy was a rank amateur.

"And then?" he asked. "I suppose then I'll be "caught" and sent to prison?"

"That is... one possibility," said Reya.

"But risky," added Flamel. It sounded like a conversation they'd had before. "It depends on your behaviour, Harry. If you behave well, you shall remain our guest, and may live out the rest of your days in comfort. We have even provided opportunity for you to continue your education," - here he gestured at the rather well-stocked bookcase - "should you wish to. But if you misbehave, Potter, then - well. My Aurors are quite skilled at tracking down criminals."

The rest of his days.

They planned to keep him in this gilded prison _forever_. It was insane. Why didn't they just kill him? Not that he wanted to die, of course, but it just made no sense.

"Well then, Potter, we'll leave you to... settle in," said Flamel, and he led Reya from the room. The door made a sucking sound as it closed behind them, as if sealing itself airtight. As soon as they were gone, Harry leapt out of bed. It was time to test Flamel's spells.

The room had a window - a large one at that, filling the place with the bright light of dawn. That would be the place to start, Harry thought. He walked over to it and looked out. There was some kind of clever obscuring charm on it. He thought that he was looking out on a street, but he couldn't really be sure. It was very strange. It wasn't that his vision was blurry, as such: he just found that he couldn't focus on any details in particular. He stared right at what he was sure was a street name, but it was as if he had forgotten how to read. He knew there was writing there, but not what it said. He couldn't even decide if the other buildings in the street were made of stone or wood.

_This could be a problem_, Harry thought. If he couldn't figure out where he was, how could he be rescued?

"_Finite,_" he said, not expecting much. The image of the street didn't even waver. Perhaps something a bit more specific would be better. Harry thought for a while, trying to think of the best choice. The art of undoing charms was something he wouldn't study properly for years. "_Finite Obsfucato!_" he tried, drawing a circle in the air. The idea was to create a circle of clear vision. Once more, the window remained unchanged.

Harry suddenly wished he knew a blasting curse. A sure way to break any charm was to destroy the object it was tied to. If he could smash the glass, he would be able to see the street beyond. And maybe even climb out.

He had been given a desk and chair. The chair was a heavy looking thing: wood and red leather; it was almost throne-like.

"_Wingardium Leviosa!_" he said, flicking his wand. After practicing the charm so much, he'd found the swish was becoming unnecessary. The chair floated into the air under the direction of Harry's will; he wrenched his wand like a fishing rod, throwing it as hard as he could against the window. It bounced off with a _boing_, the glass acting like a trampoline. He managed to bring the chair under control just before it crashed into the portrait over the fire.

"Dear boy!" the man in the portrait said, looking alarmed, "what do you think you're doing?"

Harry ignored him and, after setting the chair down, walked over to the bookcase. If he couldn't get out of the room with the magic he knew, maybe he could find a spell there to do it. He ran his fingers along the spines, reading the titles.

_Stupefaction: An Introduction to the Stunning Charm _looked interesting, but it wasn't going to help in this situation. He quickly passed over _Unnatural Philosophy by Adalbert Waffling_ too - it contained no spells. There would be time for books like that later. _Simply Smashing Spells_ looked much more promising. Harry pulled it off the shelf and set it on the desk, tracing his finger down the contents. The first half of the book was devoted to theoretical discussion, but the latter half had extensive explanations of what it called "the four principle blasting curses". Harry sat down to read.

He had work to do.

* * *

><p>"Come on, this one's empty," said Harry, picking a compartment. It was small and quite cosy: a bunk bed dominated one side, a small table with two chairs the other. She and Black had boarded the train to Paris covertly - they weren't confident in Harry's ability to buy a ticket without arousing suspicion.<p>

Once the door was closed, Black transformed back into human form.

"It'll do," he said, looking around the pokey cabin, "but we need to make some modifications. Wand."

It wasn't a request. Reluctantly, Harry passed him her wand - just for a few spells. She had never had to share a wand before. There was something about it that felt just _wrong_. It wasn't natural.

"_Obscuro Fentras_," he said, holding the wand to the window, before sweeping it around the room. "_Colloportus. Repello Malum. Repello Operam. Entrare Waulo. Silencio._" The chain of spells finished, he prodded the air in different places with the wand, as if testing something. Whatever he found, he clearly felt it required more spells. "_Juncta hexia_," he said, and then, "_Pegmato. Dissulso."_

He tested the spells again, but this time was satisfied.

"That should do it," he said, handing Harry her wand back.

"What do they all do?" she asked, curious. If Black knew about security spells, maybe he would know how to break out of Flamel's cell.

"Oh, a bit of this, a bit of that," he replied, kicking his feet up onto the table. "Mostly they divert attention. Nothing heavy duty, mind. That would just draw suspicion. Better to avoid notice altogether."

"I guess," said Harry, and she climbed onto the top bunk. She didn't want Black sleeping above her. She remembered Dumbledore's protection spells on their house in Paris. "Why didn't you cast them on the door?"

Black cocked his head - a behaviour oddly like his dog form.

"You're a weirdie, you know that? Occlumency, Ideal Wards... barmy. Anyway, it'd take me half an hour to pull off a single Ideal Ward. Time we don't have. These'll do."

He sat down and kicked his feet up on the table. His ratty old boots were falling apart, and Harry was becoming aware that he smelled rather bad. They fell into an uncomfortable silence. Harry was unwilling to relax around Black, and the Death Eater didn't seem very talkative.

"Will you stop staring at me?" he said after five minutes, "it's bloody disconcerting."

"Why would Harry's parents' choose a Death Eater as his godfather?" she asked suddenly. It had been weighing on her mind.

Black removed his feet from the table and stood back up, moving over to the window.

"Why would you care?" he said, bitterness unmistakable. "What does it matter? They're dead, and so's You-Know-Who."

The absurdity of a Death Eater - supposedly Voldemort's second in command - calling him You-Know-Who caught Harry by surprise. She remembered that Lucius Malfoy always called him the Dark Lord.

"He's not dead," she said, and then almost kicked herself. What was she doing, telling a Death Eater that his master still survived?

Black stilled his pacing and looked at her. A mixture of expressions seemed to cross his face: disbelief, fear, and confusion.

"Someday, Miss. Weasley, you're going to have to tell me how a ten year old girl knows the most dangerous secret in the world."

Now it was Harry's turn to cock her head.

"No," she said simply. "I don't."

Black laughed - a short laugh, almost like a cough, before he frowned, peering out the window again.

"What's the time?" he said, sounding suddenly serious.

Harry twirled her wand in a circle. "_Tempus,_" she said. A series of chimes that only she could hear came from behind her ears. "Just past ten thirty. Why?"

"Something's wrong," said Black. "We should have left by now. Wand."

"Maybe we're just -"

Wait. Something _was_ wrong.

Cold. It was getting colder, and the bright summer sun was darkening.

Someone screamed further down the platform. Ice spread across the edges of the window, and their breath misted in the air before them.

_Dementors._

"_WAND!_" Black roared, his eyes wide.

But it was too late. Just as the cabin light flicked out, the first Dementor came into view. There were five of them, floating just above the ground, covered almost entirely in ripped black robes. Only their hands were visible: mottled, scabbed skin covered their skeletal fingers, and each of them wore a ring of rusted iron. Their terrible faces were covered by their hoods, but as they passed Harry could hear the frozen air rattle as they drew it in - not so much breathing as feeding.

A woman was screaming. All of Harry's world was taken up by it. In France, his book lay forgotten, his eyes unseeing as he stared at it.

_Not Harry! Take me instead!_

_Who was that? _It was so cold. _Why wouldn't anyone help the woman? _The cold was digging deep now, right into Harry's blood, right into her _mind_. Newly developing instincts awoke.

She clenched her jaw and pushed against the cold, separating it and herself. She was Harry. She was here, now. She was master of her own mind, and those memories were her own. She wasn't interested in them now. The screaming faded, and she opened her eyes - she hadn't even realised they were closed.

Black had frozen where he was standing, watching the Dementors pass. His eyes were white, his pupils shrunk to a pinpoint.

"Wand!" Harry shouted, and she threw it to him.

Some part of Black must have still been aware. His arm caught the wand by instinct, and immediately he stood straighter.

"_Expecto Patronum!"_ he said, his voice harsh and cracking, and a soft pearly light filled the compartment as a glowing white dog leapt from the wand tip. It prowled around the compartment, growling at the window.

The cold didn't pass, but it became somehow less intense. Less biting. Less _evil_.

"Merlin's Balls," said Black, still staring out the window. "It can't be..."

The Warlock's Circle had arrived.

There were twelve of them in total, every one of them dressed in black. They were striding down the platform flanked by yet more Dementors. Their leader, Rufus Scrimgeour, was a tall man with a mane of rust coloured hair. He held his arm aloft, and his finger bore a ring identical to those the Dementors wore.

The wizards and witches behind him were an impressive sight. Black was able to name most of them as they passed.

"Bartemius Burke," he said, indicating a grizzled old man with a pointy grey beard. He was armed to the teeth with medieval-looking weapons - all of them likely enchanted with Dark magic. "He plundered half of Europe in the forties. All those weapons are priceless, one of a kind, artefacts. And that one's Cygnus Thames-"

"The bald one with the bandoliers?" Harry asked.

"That's the one. Potions specialist. Wanted dead or alive in thirty-five sovereign states for poisoning the city of Olm. Got it into the water supply - all for the chance Grindelwald might take a sip. Killed a hundred thousand Muggles - the city's been obliviated from Muggle history."

The idea of such a man walking free made Harry feel sick. She began to understand the uproar caused by the reinstatement of the Warlock's Circle.

"What about him?" she asked, pointing to another. He was the youngest of the bunch, handsome, with light brown hair neatly cut. The air seemed to ripple around him, and each time his boot hit the ground it wobbled, like he was walking on jelly.

"Christ!" Black exclaimed, seeing the man for the first time. An oddly Muggle expression. "No one knows his real name. He goes by Quicksilver. Banished from Britain in the sixties for practising alchemical wizardry. Captured by Dumbledore himself. It was huge."

"What's alchemical wizardry?" asked Harry, staring at the mysterious Quicksilver. He seemed different from the others, somehow.

"Complicated," Black said with a wry smile. "A bit of legilimency, a bit of transfiguration, a bit of potions. But mostly it's about the soul. Don't know much more than that. But there was a string of mysterious deaths right before Quicksilver was brought it. Brutal stuff."

As Quicksilver passed, Harry's eyes were drawn to the man behind him. She gaped. It was mad. They couldn't be controlled.

"What the hell are those?" Black said.

He was pointing at two snakes that were making their way down the platform, each one at least ten feet long and as thick as a man's leg. A wizard was walking between them, brandishing his wand, directing the snakes. They had blinkers covering their eyes.

"Basilisks," said Harry, still disbelieving.

"Fuck," said Black. It was an apt summary of Harry's feelings.

And then they saw the first witch. Black just stared at her. She was beautiful, in a way, with pale skin, red lips, and long, wild dark hair. She swaggered down the platform as if she owned it.

"Bellatrix," said Black. He looked completely shocked. "They let Bellatrix out. They're absolutely insane. Do they want to start a war?"

If this Bellatrix woman shocked Black speechless, it was Harry's turn when she saw the man a few steps behind her. Only one person's robes billowed like that.

"Snape!" she said, pointing wildly.

"Yeah, I see him," Black replied, and if anything he looked even angrier than when he saw Bellatrix. "Neck deep in the Dark Arts, the both of them!"

Harry looked at Voldemort's second in command. He spoke about the Dark magic with such venom.

"Who's Bellatrix?" she asked. She'd never heard the name before.

"Bellatrix Lestrange, official crazy bitch," spat Black. "She was right in You-Know-Who's Inner Circle. Maybe even his second, after Nicolas Volante got the Kiss."

Harry had never heard of Nicolas Volante either, but something wasn't adding up. Was Black trying to trick her?

"But that was you, wasn't it?" she asked, rather boldly. "Voldemort's second?"

Black turned his gaze to her. It was inscrutable. He laughed his bark-like laugh again.

"Is _that_ what they say about me?"

"Are you saying you weren't?" He'd been hinting at it, over and over. Time to ask him to his face.

He turned back to the window.

"Well, this is practically confirmation that Snape was a Death Eater. We always suspected..." he trailed off, completely ignoring her question. She thought about pushing the issue, but honestly, what could she do? Just make a dangerous Dark wizard angry. Flamel had taught her the costs of rash action.

"Wait, Snape's a Death Eater?" she said, allowing Black to direct the conversation. And Snape _was_ a bastard. "But he works at Hogwarts!"

"Snivellus is a teacher?" Black said in surprise. "What was Dumbledore thinking, putting him near children? They might drown in the grease from his hair..."

Harry snorted, before stopping herself. She was _not_ going to joke about Snape with Voldemort's most trusted. She was letting her guard down.

She turned her back on the window and retreated to the bunk bed. She wasn't going to let Black trick her. He was a Death Eater. He was no better than the war criminals outside.

The idea of Death Eaters being freed to avenge Dumbledore's death made Harry's blood boil. Someone was using Dumbledore's death to undo everything he had ever stood for. Using it to weaken the British Ministry and strengthen Dark wizards.

And then Harry's boiling blood ran cold.

Was that the plan? There was only one man that could have killed Dumbledore. Everyone knew it. It was the elephant in the room.

Voldemort had returned, and his attack had already begun.

* * *

><p><em>Pop!<em>

Harry jumped from his seat in surprise, knocking it backwards. His wand was out, ready to cast a hasty hex, but his spell died on his lips when he saw who - or rather, what - had apparated into the room. A House Elf was staring at him, legs shaking, frozen in shock, her eyes impossibly wide. She was holding a tray of steaming food. It smelled beautiful. _Was that gravy? _It'd been so long since he'd had a proper meal.

"Tipsy is being sorry, Mister Potter sir," she said in a tiny voice, and Harry noticed that she was a lot smaller than Dobby. The tray of food dwarfed her. Was this a House Elf _child_? He swallowed the urge to apologise back: he had a bit of experience with House Elves now, and wanted to avoid hysterics if possible.

"It's all right," he said, but he didn't put his wand away. "Why don't you put the food on the desk? _Orgando_." His spell cleared a space on the messy desk, shuffling his notes on blasting spells to one side. Tipsy put the tray down and hopped from one foot to the other nervously. She scrunched her large nose and looked at the ceiling, as if trying to remember something.

"Oh!" she said, and smiled. "Is Mister Potter needing anything else?"

"Well, you could take me out of here," he said flippantly. Tipsy squeaked and her hopping intensified.

"Harry Potter is a great and kind wizard, but Tipsy cannot be doing that. Oh! Oh no! Tipsy is always getting things wrong!"

She looked like she was about to cry.

"It's okay," Harry said, and he patted her awkwardly on the head. "You're doing great."

"Really, Mister Potter sir?"

"Really," Harry said, giving her an encouraging smile. Then something occurred to him. "Er - shouldn't you speak, like, French?"

Tipsy giggled.

"Tipsy is speaking Elfish, like other House Elves," she said.

Before Harry found out about Parseltongue, that would have made a lot less sense. He supposed it was part of the magic of House Elves.

"Okay, well, I guess I don't need anything else," he said. For a moment he had hoped she could take him away. Dobby had been able to go through the protections around Hogwarts, after all, and without his Master's permission.

"Goodnight, Mister Harry!"

Tipsy popped back out, leaving Harry once again in silence. He shook his head and turned to the food. It really did look very good. He sniffed it cautiously, trying to figure out if it contained anything untoward, but they hadn't even started poisons and antidotes in Potions class. It just smelled like the great beef wellington it was. And really, if Flamel wanted to hurt him, he had much more direct means.

He tucked in, eating quickly, wanting to get back to blasting spells. He was almost ready to give it a go, he thought. He was focusing on just one spell, having quickly dismissed the Reductor Curse - it was about as powerful as a strong kick, which wasn't enough for the window. The chair had shown that. The Expulsing Curse was also inappropriate, and the Caesus Curse - if he was even able to manage it, which he doubted - was much too powerful. He'd blow up half the house, and himself besides. No, he needed the Ignition Curse. Derived from the Reductor and Caesus, it produced both powerful force and fire.

_No time like the present_, he thought as he finished his food. He took one last look over his notes - a mess of diagrams and graphs, equations and flow charts. He didn't understand everything, but he thought he had enough. He was as ready as he'd ever be.

Harry moved as far away from the window as he could. He didn't want to get caught by the spell, after all. _Okay, here goes_. He raised his wand.

The spell started in the third position. _Aggressive stance, a common beginning for many curses. Complex stability depends on the precision of the motion._

Sweep to fifth. _Invocation of fire. Angle relative to head will determine balance of fire and force according to Bowman's Law of Thermokinetics. Length of pause inversely proportional to completion speed._ A nimbus of red light began to form around the tip of his wand.

Hammer to first, third variant. _Casting position. Transitive object taken. Incantation must be left for the final moment._

"_CONFRINGO!"_

The spell burst from his wand like a firework, fizzing and spluttering in a shower of red sparks and smoke. Quicker than Harry could see, the spell whizzed across the room. It hit the window like a hammer against a gong and bounced right off, shooting straight back at Harry. He ducked just in time. He felt a ripple of hot air pass over his head before the _gong_ sounded again, and the spell was off: ducking by the desk, hands over his ears, Harry watched as it bounced around the room like a pinball, reflecting from wall to wall, each impact adding to the racket. Then -

_CRASH!_

The _crack and snap _of splintering wood filled the room as the spell smashed into the bed, flaming shards of wood flying across the room as it was torn asunder. Hidden as he was behind the chair, Harry managed to avoid the shrapnel, but he quickly realised the danger had not yet passed.

The remains of the bed - cracked in two down the centre, as if it had been hit with a sledgehammer - were on fire.

"_Corpellus!_" Harry shouted, tapping his forehead with his wand. A feeling like a cool breeze rippled over his skin, marking a successful Flame Freezing Charm. For a moment, Harry considered letting the fire continue. If it raged hard enough, maybe it would destroy the room and he could escape.

But that plan was quickly discarded when he began to cough. The room was rapidly filling with smoke. Unfortunately, Harry had no idea how to stop a fire.

"Black!" she shouted, and the Death Eater jumped as she broke the silence. "What's the spell to conjure water? Quickly!"

"The incantation's 'aguamenti', but it's a pretty tricky spell," he said, looking at her in confusion. "Why?"

"_Aguamenti!"_ Harry cried, and a single drip of water came out of his wand. "Damn!" he said, with both his bodies, his concentration rapidly deteriorating. She clamped down on her body, immobilizing it. This was no time for multitasking.

"_Wingardium Leviosa!_" he shouted, thinking quickly. The tattered and flaming remnants of his bedsheets hoisted up into the hair. Harry flicked his wand, and they flew into the stone hearth.

"_Wingardi-" _He coughed as he breathed in a mouthful of smoke. His eyes were beginning to sting now. Remembering that smoke rises, Harry crouched down, trying to find cleaner air.

"_Wingardium Leviosa!_" he repeated, and this time a corner of the bed levitated. Weakened by fire, it tore off from the frame as it lifted up. _Crap_, thought Harry, _gotta hurry_. He flicked his wand once more, intending to do the same, but as the wood accelerated into the fireplace, the fire spat and a chunk of wood flew off, landing on a particularly furry rug.

_Whoosh!_

The dry fur lit up like kindling, and now there were two fires. The smoke was getting bad. He had to get creative.

"_Corpellus!"_ he cried, pointing his wand at the rug. For a moment, the fire flashed a deep blue, but it was otherwise unaffected.

_Damn!_ He hadn't been sure if the Flame Freezing Charm could be adapted like that. _What else?_ He had to think of something!

"Second position, you fool boy!" shouted the portrait suddenly. "You have to use the second position!"

Of course! He wasn't casting on himself, but at a foreign object!

"_Corpellus!_" he shouted, twisting his wand into second. The fire on the rug froze in place like it was made of ice, turning a deep blue. "_Corpellus! Corpellus! Corpellus!" _

Harry looked around the half-destroyed room. The bed, the curtains, the bedside cabinet, the rug. All showed the signs of fire damage; all had shards of what looked like blue glass protruding from them. Curious, Harry moved over to the bed and held his hand near one of the frozen flames - it was quite cool. He ripped it out of the wood, and threw it into the fireplace. It smashed in a gout of flame, but did not continue to burn.

He wandered around the room, collecting the frozen flames. Maybe he could keep a few, to use as weapons? It would be risky, though. An image blossomed in his mind of his pocket spontaneously combusting when the charm wore off. He knew it wouldn't last for long - it was his first try with the spell, and you'd need to use Elemental Transfiguration - not taught at Hogwarts - for anything permanent.

The portrait interrupted his deliberations.

"I've been around a long time, boy," he said. "And let me tell you: that was quite possibly the stupidest thing I've ever seen."

Harry looked up at the man. He was youngish, and bore a rather striking familial resemblance to Jean-Francois. And yet it had saved his life.

"Thanks, whoever you are," he said, throwing a handful of blue glass into the hearth.

The portrait sniffed haughtily.

"My name," he said, "is Nicolas Flamel."

* * *

><p>Harry sighed in frustration.<p>

"So you can't let me out either?" he said, poking the bed with his wand. He'd found the Repair Charm in one of Flamel's books, but without the time to study it properly it was pretty useless. "I thought you were meant to be Dumbledore's friend?"

Flamel yawned, as if Harry were boring him. Harry was sure it was deliberate. Did portraits even get tired?

"I was commissioned in 1829, boy. If my living self befriended this 'Dumbledore', that was his business, not mine."

That made things a bit more difficult. Harry had hoped that Nicolas Flamel would be eager to help him.

"_Reparo!_" he repeated. A few shards of wood wobbled. He sighed, wondering what Jean-Francois would do when he saw the state of the room. If he didn't get out first, that was. He turned back to the portrait. It was his only hope. "Okay, so you didn't know Dumbledore," he said, conceding the point. "But you could still help me get out of here, couldn't you?"

"Even if I wanted to, I could not," Flamel replied, somewhat disdainfully. "I am, of course, bound to serve the Flamel line."

That was no real surprise. The portraits at Hogwarts all obeyed the teachers. But maybe he could be tricked into giving out vital information - like the location of the house. Time for a bit of acting.

"But you saved my life!" he said, deliberately whiney. "So you _can_ help me, a bit. Maybe not directly, but you could give me a hint, or something..."

"Ha! It was in the spirit of self-preservation that I came to your aid, not charity, I assure you. And indeed, watching a little boy burn to death would be a most unpleasant way to spend a Saturday afternoon. But help you escape? I think not! I've seen little to justify trusting you with a wand, never mind freedom!"

_What a dick_, Harry thought. Though it hadn't worked as he had hoped, Harry was rather proud of his blasting curse. There was a plus side, though: someone as stuck up as Nicolas Flamel would be easy to provoke.

"You know what?" Harry said, not entirely needing to fake anger, "I should've let Voldemort take the stone from you! I'd like to see Jean-Francois stand up to _him_! That'd wipe the smug look off his face."

Flamel had gone very still, and was now looking at Harry intently.

"What's that, boy? What do you know about the stone?"

That was more like it. Harry laughed a bitter laugh.

"You didn't think to _ask_ Jean-Francois why I'm here?" he asked.

"Of course not," said Nicolas. "I'm a portrait."

That caused Harry to pause, and remember for a moment that he was talking to a picture, not a person. What did a portrait care about the affairs of the living? How much of Nicolas Flamel really remained? The portrait had some knowledge - he couldn't have saved Harry otherwise - but it suddenly occurred to Harry that it couldn't be a perfect copy. Otherwise everyone at Hogwarts would be taught by the portraits of great wizards - there'd be no need for living teachers.

"Well, your however-many greats grandson is a Dark wizard, and he's taken me prisoner," said Harry plainly. He was still angry, but the red-hot fury of the day before had passed. It had been replaced with a cool, desperate need to see justice. "All because I _saved_ the Philosopher's Stone. It's not my fault you decided to destroy it. But he's on some kind of crazy mission of revenge."

"Jean-Francois may be many things, boy, but he is not a Dark wizard," said the portrait, "nor is he crazy. No, there's something else going on here. Just _what_ is that boy up to?"

"He's-" Harry began, but he stopped. Flamel had stood up, and walked out of his frame. "Great!" he said, kicking the bed.

"Oi! What's up with you?" Black said, poking her in the face. He was looming over her, his face inches away from her own. "Are you dead?"

"What a stupid question," Harry said irritably, pushing Black back as she sat up. She'd been so focused on Flamel that she forgot to relax her body. It must have looked like she was in a coma or something.

"Finally awake, then?" Black said, looking at her suspiciously. "That was pretty creepy, you know. You want to tell me what's going on?"

For a moment, Harry felt like coming clean. She was so _tired_. But no. She couldn't trust Black.

"It's none of your business." She slipped off the bunk bed and went over to the window, wanting to stretch her legs.

The sight that met her took her breath away. She'd heard about it of course - it was famous the world over. The Great Aqueduct. It stretched for miles and miles, crossing the Channel between Britain and France, its old stones placed there by ancient Roman warlocks. But seeing it was something else. It was tall - a hundred metres above the roiling sea, and deadly straight. She couldn't see them, but she knew that great stone arches lay beneath them.

"Impressive, isn't it?" said Black, looking over her shoulder.

"Yeah," she replied, looking down. It would be a great place to fly. _We should've taken brooms after all_, she thought. "But why did they build it?" she asked, curious. It seemed singularly unnecessary.

"For the conquest of Britain," Black said. "Large bodies of sitting water like the Channel disrupt magic, especially stuff like apparition. So they connected the waterways. Of course, it hasn't been active for a thousand years."

That made a lot of sense. She had wondered why they couldn't just apparate to France.

"So if someone ran some water across here...?" she began.

"Then Britain and France would be magically connected, and you could apparate to Paris as easily as Scotland."

The idea unsettled Harry. She liked that there was a barrier between Britain and Flamel's conspiracy.

"Hey!" said Black, and he was pointing at the sky. "What's that?"

Harry squinted, but couldn't see what Black was pointing to. Her eyesight was good, but apparently Black's was better. But then she saw it. She knew immediately what it was.

"Hedwig!" she said, her heart soaring, before she could help herself. She smiled. She'd missed her owl, since she'd lent her to Hermione for the summer. "Open the window!"

Black hesitated, but after seeing Hedwig come closer, he reached up and pulled the window open. The moment it cracked open the roar of freezing wind slammed into the compartment. Harry's hair whipped around her face, but she didn't move, keeping her eyes fixed on the approaching owl.

She barrelled into the train at top speed, barely able to control her landing - the train was moving quite fast. It must have been hard for Hedwig to get in. Harry gave her a moment to right herself, before letting her flap her way onto her lap.

"Hey Hedwig," she said, stroking her head with one finger. Frankly, she was amazed Hedwig knew who she was. Black closed the window.

"She has a letter," he said pointedly. Harry unwound the string carefully. It wasn't a full letter - just a folded square of loose parchment. "Harry Potter" was written on the front, and Harry recognised the writing instantly - Hermione.

_Harry_

_I hope this letter finds you. I know you're alive - Hedwig. I'm coming to Paris immediately. Meet me by the pyramid at the Louvre on Sunday, at noon. Be careful,_

_Hermione_

Harry smiled, a warm feeling feeling her. She could always rely on her friends.

"That," said Black, "is addressed to Harry Potter."

Harry looked up. Black was standing before her. At some point he'd managed get hold of her wand.

"She - she must have known we were going to rescue him," she offered. It was one of the worst lies she'd ever told.

"There's only reason why the owl would bring that letter to you," he said, and he cocked his head.

He lunged towards her. Harry's eyes widened; there was nothing she could do. And then he was hugging her. Harry stiffened - she was being hugged by a Death Eater. A smelly one.

"How?" Black said, pulling back.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she said, her mind panicking. He _knew_! It was insane, but somehow, he'd figured it out.

"Harry," he said, and Harry's heart stopped at her name. He kneeled down in front of her, and offered her the wand. "I was never a Death Eater. I never killed those Muggles. Please, believe me!"

Ah. So there it was. The denial she'd been waiting for. He'd been acting oddly, for sure. But completely innocent?

"Do you have any proof?" she said, somewhat coldly. Black looked crushed.

"The rat," he said, visibly frustrated. "All the crimes I was accused of - I was framed. Peter Pettigrew - he did it all. I thought he was my friend, but I was wrong! Oh, Harry, we were so wrong! He betrayed James, then faked his death by killing all those Muggles. Framing me. The Weasleys rat - that's him. But he knew, somehow, and ran before I could get him."

It was absurd. A ridiculous story. Convenient, wasn't it, that the proof had disappeared just when he needed it? Harry didn't believe him.

And yet... a faint hope stirred in her heart. The hope that she wasn't alone. What if it was _true_? She'd have a godfather. She could leave the Dursleys. She wouldn't be alone anymore.

"You have no proof," she said plainly, her voice completely neutral. "Save me from Flamel: that will be your proof."

Sirius nodded.

"You'll see," he promised, before he looked her over. "Now tell me: what the hell is going on with _this_?" He waved in her general direction.

"It's a complicated story," she said, not sure if she wanted to tell. She was so used to hiding things now. The only person she'd ever considered telling was Dumbledore, and he was -

"We have a lot of time," Sirius pointed out.

"I have two bodies," Harry said simply.

Sirius _laughed_. It was a deep sound, a rumbling that built up into guffaws. "Apparently not so complicated," he grinned. "Your... other body, you're being held by Nicolas Flamel? That makes no sense. Flamel and Dumbledore were always allies."

"Not Nicolas Flamel," Harry explained. She supposed she _was_ going to tell him everything. It was a liberating feeling. "Nicolas is dead," - she ignored Sirius' look of shock - "no, I'm being held by his... well, one of his descendants. Jean-Francois Flamel."

"And do you know where?" he said. "Where in Paris?"

"His own home, but I don't know where," she said. "I'm working on it. Hang on - the portrait's coming back."

"Where'd you go?" Harry asked Nicolas as he wandered back into his frame. As he spoke, she explained to Sirius about the portrait.

Flamel didn't reply immediately. He settled himself back into his seat, taking his time about it. Finally, he looked up at Harry as if he'd just noticed him.

"Ah. Young Potter. I have seen disturbing things. My own line - no. Even now, I cannot speak of it. Understand, boy, I am still bound."

_Yes!_ Harry thought, inwardly celebrating. Now he was getting somewhere.

"So you want to help me?" he asked.

Flamel opened his mouth to say something, but stopped, wincing.

"Tell me, Potter: what do you know about security spells?"

"_Keep him talking," suggested Sirius. "Clearly he can't offer you direct help. He's trying to give you a hint."_

Harry thought.

"Not much," he said, honestly, trying to remember everything he knew. "They're mostly Charms. They keep people out of somewhere - or in somewhere. Like all Charms, they break if you destroy the object. And you can cast them on the idea of entry as well as on actual physical things."

"Perhaps you're not so hopeless," said Flamel. "Yes, you're quite right. Security spells are Charms like any other."

Harry frowned. He was trying to draw Harry's attention to something. Something he'd said about Charms: that they break if you destroy their object.

"But I already tried destroying the window," he said, thinking out loud. "You're saying I should try the door?"

Flamel pinched the bridge of his nose.

"You may find this hard to believe, boy, but magic isn't just about bangs and smoke."

"Okay, then, so not the door." Harry looked around the room for ideas.

"I find Muggle culture fascinating," said Flamel, his tone carefully carefree. "Have you heard of the Muggle myth of Father Christmas?"

Harry's eyes settled on the fireplace. _The chimney_. That was an entrance too. The spells weren't on the window, or the door. They were on the chimney.

She explained the situation to Sirius.

"So... I blow up the chimney?" she asked. Sirius laughed.

"If you blow a hole in a door, does it stop being an entrance?" he said.

And Harry understood. It was an Ideal ward, cast on the idea of entrance and exit. To destroy the object of the spell, he couldn't _destroy_ the fireplace. He had to block it up.

"_Wingardium Leviosa!"_ Harry said, and began levitating the remains of the bed into the fireplace.

"_That's_ more like it," said Flamel. He sounded oddly proud. "But be careful, boy. Remember what my descendent told you, when he gave you your wand."

The room would give the most talented wizards trouble - that's what he'd said. Proper understanding of ideal wards was advanced magic, sure. But was it enough to hold "the most talented wizards"?

"_There must be other protections," Sirius said. "I say go for it. It doesn't sound like they want to kill you - worst case, you end up back where you already are."_

Harry nodded at the portrait and prepared himself.

"Thank you," he said, and flicked his wand. The bed flew into the fireplace. The door swung open.

And then the bells began - like the fire alarm at Harry's old school, only much, _much_ louder. Harry fled. The door led him out onto a long corridor - just one bedroom among many. Harry chose a direction and started running.

A man in formal wear rounded the corner.

"_Expelliarmus!_" Harry cried as the man reached into his robes. He was blasted back into the wall, wand flying. Breathing heavily, Harry didn't spare him a glance as he ran past.

The corridor became a stairwell. The choice was obvious. _Down_. Harry could hear shouting behind him, back down the corridor. He didn't look back. His feet pounded stair after stair, his heart hammering. The stairs led to a door. Harry burst through, and found himself in a large kitchen, filled with House Elves.

The screamed as they saw him barrel through the door, and disapparated in a series of pops. _Good_. Harry paused for a moment, clutching his chest. Why was he so tired?

There was another door on the other side of the kitchen. He took it, passing into a long dining room, dominated by a table like a Muggle boardroom.

Jean-Francois Flamel was the room's sole occupant, sitting at the head. Harry wanted to scream in frustration.

"I must admit, I'm moderately impressed," he said, sipping a cup of coffee. He looked unworried.

"_Hit him with all you've got," said Sirius_.

Three. Five. One.

"_Confringo!_" Harry shouted, slamming his wand to point at Flamel. It flashed orange, but a shimmering shield, almost solid, appeared in front of Flamel, absorbing the spell with ease. Harry staggered, breathing heavily. What was happening to him? Suddenly, he yawned.

"Feeling tired?" said Flamel, standing up. He walked a bit closer. "You didn't think I'd rely entirely on a single spell to keep you here?"

Harry fell to his knees. His eyelids began to droop. He was so sleepy.

"_Harry, the location! We need the location!" Sirius shouted_.

Three. A yawn. Five. Flamel raised his wand to block. One.

"_Confringo!"_

The spell shot from his wand, and Flamel shielded again.

But he wasn't aiming for Flamel.

The spell smashed into the dining room wall with a crash, blasting a hole two metres across. Flames licked at its edges, and beyond lay a cobbled street.

Red light shot from Flamel's wand, sending Harry into blissful sleep.

But not before he got what he wanted.

She turned to Sirius, victorious.

"Allée Deschanel," she said. "Right next to the Eiffel Tower!"


End file.
